IX.

There was silence. None did dare To use again the spoken air Of that far-charming voice, until A Christian resting on the hill, With a thoughtful smile subdued (Seeming learnt in solitude) Which a weeper might have viewed Without new tears, did softly say, And looked up unto heaven alway While he praised the Earth-- "O Earth, I count the praises thou art worth, By thy waves that move aloud, By thy hills against the cloud, By thy valleys warm and green, By the copses' elms between, By their birds which, like a sprite Scattered by a strong delight Into fragments musical, Stir and sing in every bush; By thy silver founts that fall, As if to entice the stars at night To thine heart; by grass and rush, And little weeds the children pull, Mistook for flowers! --Oh, beautiful Art thou, Earth, albeit worse Than in heaven is called good! Good to us, that we may know Meekly from thy good to go; While the holy, crying Blood Puts its music kind and low 'Twixt such ears as are not dull, And thine ancient curse!