Hours In The Bowers. Poem by Samuel Bamford

Hours more dear than drops of gold
Come when the tender buds unfold;
Then do I wander to field and glen,
Far as I may for the gentlemen.
Over the blade of em'rald sheen.
Over the herb that creeps between;
Odours inhaling that sweetly smell,
As I gather the cresses beside the well.

Spring moves on as glad I gaze,
Calling the flowers wherever she strays:
'Come from the earth, ye dwellers there,
To the blessed light and the living air;
For the snowdrop hath warned the drift away,
And the crocus awaiteth your company,
And the bud of the thorn is beginning to swell,
And the waters have broken their bonds in the dell.
And are not the hazle and slender bine
Blending their boughs where the sun doth shine?
And the willow is bringing its downy palm,
Garland for days that are bright and calm;
And the lady-flow'r waves on its slender stem,
And the primrose peeps like a starry gem?'

In sunny nook, where the grass is dry,
Reading I sit, or I musing lie.
Then he who was lost in the ocean main,
Returneth perhaps to my thoughts again;
Or the twain who fell for that 'right divine,'
Which hath fully been prov'd in the battle-line;
Or the noble bard too soon who died,
Too late for wounded love and pride;
Or Burns, who only ask'd for bread,
And hath gotten a marble tomb instead!
Or, casting a thought towards sorrows past,
I hope the last pang may remain the last;
Or counting the good which hath fall'n to my share,
I thank the Great Being who plac'd it there!

Hark! from the heavens yon trill of joy!
Child of the sward, art thou up so high?
'I can sing on the wing,' the warbler cries,
'There is life in the gale—I arise, I arise!
Up as I soar it is deep and clear;
Whilst the earth brings forth, and the germs appear,
Plenty I gather and freely fly—
How happy am I, how happy am I!'

By bending dales where groves are seen,
By waters clear, and margins green,
In dim-shed light or open glade,
I wander—or in sunless shade.
Through hoary woods where moss abounds,
By springs and wells with silver sounds,
To pastures where the shamrock grows,
And bowers which none beside me knows.
And often as I lonely walk
I hear the mighty Spirit talk,
From cloud above, from earth below,
Where winds do roll, where waters flow;
From topmost wave of wildest sea,
To stillest land and inmost lea.
It bids me live, and life to spare;
It bids me love, and wrath forbear;
It tells me, justice is not blind;
It shews me mercy, oh how kind!
It says, if I would happy be,
Virtue must point the way for me!