The Morning Walk

To the beech grove with so sweet an air It beckon’d me. O, Earth! that never the cruel plough-share Had furrow’d thee! In their dark shelter the flowerets grew, Bright to the eye, And smil’d by my foot on the cloudlets blue, Which deck’d the sky.

To the wood through a field I took my way; There I could see On the field an uppil’d stone-heap lay, ’Twixt hillocks three; So anciently grayly white it stood, An oblong ring: Here doubtless was held in the old time good A royal Ting.

The royal stone, which there doth stand, The Stol-king press’d, With crown on head, and sceptre in hand, In sables drest. And every warrior solemnly pac’d Peaceful in thought, And down on his stone himself calmly plac’d— No sword he brought.

The king’s house stood on yonder height, With walls of power; On yon had his daughter, the damsel bright, Her maiden bower. Upon the third the temple stood, Through the North famed wide, Where to Thor was offered the he-goat’s blood, In reeking tide.

O, lovely field! and forest fair, And meads grass-clad; Her bride-bed Freya every where Enamelled had. The corn-flowers rose in azure band From earthly cell; Nought else could I do but stop and stand, And greet them well.

Welcome on earth’s green breast again, Ye flowerets dear! In spring how charming ’mid the grain Your heads ye rear. Like stars ’midst lightning’s yellow ray Ye shine red, blue: O, how your summer aspect gay Delights my view.

O poet! poet! silence keep, God help thy case: Our owner holds us sadly cheap, And scorns our race. Each time he sees, he calls us scum, Or worthless tares; Hell-weeds that but to vex him come ’Midst his corn-ears.

The greatest grace done for our sake In all his life, Is from his pocket deep to take His huge clasp knife; And heavy handful then to cut, ’Midst grumbling much— Us with tobacco leaves to put In seal-skin pouch.

He says, he says, that smoked this way, We dross of the field, To the world by chance, by poor chance, may Some benefit yield; But as for our beauty, our blue and red hues, ’Tis folly indeed— The mouth is his only test of use, And that’s his creed.

O wretched mortals!—O wretched man! O wretched crowd!— No pleasures ye pluck—no pleasures ye plan In life’s lone road:— Whose eyes are blind to the glories great Of the works of God; And dream that the mouth is the nearest gate To joy’s abode.

Come flowers! for we to each other belong, Come graceful elf, And around my lute in sympathy strong Now wind thyself; And quake as if mov’d by zephyr’s wing, ’Neath the clang of the chord, And a morning song with glee we’ll sing To our Maker and Lord!