Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE WONDERS OF THE LANE, by EBENEZER ELLIOTT Poet's Biography First Line: Strong climber of the mountain's side Last Line: Thy little ones would sleep. Alternate Author Name(s): Corn-law Rhymer; Elliot, Ebenezer Subject(s): Mountain Climbing | ||||||||
STRONG climber of the mountain's side, Though thou the vale disdain, Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide The wonders of the lane. High o'er the rushy springs of Don The stormy gloom is roll'd; The moorland hath not yet put on His purple, green, and gold. But here the titling spreads his wing, Where dewy daises gleam; And here the sun-flower of the spring Burns bright in morning's beam. To mountain winds the famish'd fox Complains that Sol is slow O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks His royal robe to throw. But here the lizard seeks the sun, Here coils in light the snake; And here the fire-tuft hath begun Its beauteous nest to make. Oh then, while hums the earliest bee Where verdure fires the plain, Walk thou with me, and stoop to see The glories of the lane! For, oh, I love these banks of rock, This roof of sky and tree, These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock, And wakes the earliest bee! As spirits from eternal day Look down on earth secure, Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey A world in miniature! A world not scorn'd by Him who made Even weakness by his might; But solemn in his depth of shade, And splendid in his light. Light! not alone on clouds afar O'er storm-loved mountains spread, Or widely teaching sun and star, Thy glorious thoughts are read; Oh, no! thou art a wondrous book, To sky, and sea, and land -- A page on which the angels look, Which insects understand! And here, O light! minutely fair, Divinely plain and clear, Like splinters of a crystal hair, Thy bright small hand is here. Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide, Is Huron, girt with wood; This driplet feeds Missouri's tide -- And that, Niagara's flood. What tidings from the Andes brings Yon line of liquid light, That down from heaven in madness flings The blind foam of its might? Do I not hear his thunder roll -- The roar that ne'er is still? 'T is mute as death! -- but in my soul It roars, and ever will. What forests tall of tiniest moss Clothe every little stone! What pigmy oaks their foliage toss O'er pigmy valleys lone! With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, Ambitious of the sky, Thy feather o'er the steepest edge Of mountains mushroom high. O God of marvels! who can tell What myriad living things On these gray stones unseen may dwell; What nations, with their kings? I feel no shock, I hear no groan, While fate perchance o'erwhelms Empires on this subverted stone -- A hundred ruin'd realms! Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me, Impell'd by wo or whim, May crawl some atom cliffs to see -- A tiny world to him! Lo! while he pauses, and admires The works of Nature's might, Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires, And all to him is night! O God of terrors! what are we? -- Poor insects, spark'd with thought! Thy whisper, Lord, a word from thee Could smite us into nought! But shouldst thou wreck our father-land, And mix it with the deep, Safe in the hollow of thine hand Thy little ones would sleep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BEFORE AND AFTER by CLARENCE MAJOR CLIMBING MILESTONE MOUNTAIN, AUGUST 22, 1937. by KENNETH REXROTH FOR THE BOY WHO WAS DODGER POINT LOOKOUT FIFTEEN YEARS AGO by GARY SNYDER AN ALPINE DESCENT by SAMUEL ROGERS ABER STATIONS: STATIO SEPTIMA by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN ABER STATIONS: STATIO SEXTA by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN A POET'S EPITAPH by EBENEZER ELLIOTT |
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