A WORD WITH THE BROWNINGS.
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Think how little is in Nature, if in littleness of eye,You resume it from your chamber, or your carriage, rolling by;Merely shabby ancient mountains, and a tiresome old sea,Slow the rivers, dull the forest, adding weary tree to tree.
'Tis not yours, this idle strophe, but in all that you have seen,Does no inward grace add splendor to the purple, and the sheen?Wants there not a generous spirit for the finer joys of sight?Heart must help the scenes around us, ere they minister delight.
I remember summer mornings in a village poor and mean,With a railroad running near it, and a living oaken screen;When the Girlhood gathered round me, a decorous little band,As I read with fervent feeling, and your volumes in my hand.
