e else. Whatever the weather be, love,
admire, and delight in it, and vow that you would not change it for the
atmosphere of a dream. If it be close, hot, oppressive, be thankful for
the faint air that comes down fitfully from cliff and chasm, or the
breeze that ever and anon gushes from stream and lake. If the heavens
are filled with sunshine, and you feel the vanity of parasols, how cool
the sylvan shade for ever moistened by the murmurs of that fairy
waterfall! Should it blow great guns, cannot you take shelter in yonder
magnificent fort, whose hanging battlements are warded even from the
thunder-bolt by the dense umbrage of unviolated woods?
Rain--rain--rain--an even-down pour of rain, that forces upon you
visions of Noah and his ark, and the top of Mount Ararat--still, we
beseech you, be happy. It cannot last long at that rate; the thing is
impossible. Even this very afternoon will the rainbow span the blue
entrance into Rydal's woody vale, as if to hail the westering sun on
his approach to the mountains--and a hundred hill-born torrents will be
seen flashing out of the upfolding mists. What a delightful dazzle on
the light-stricken river! Each meadow shames the lustre of the emerald;
and the soul wishes not for language to speak the pomp and prodigality
of colours that Heaven now rejoices to lavish on the grove-girdled
Fairfield, who has just tossed off the clouds from his rocky crest.

You will not imagine, from anything we have ever said, that we are
enemies to early rising. Now and then, what purer bliss than to embrace
the new-wakened Morn, just as she is rising from her dewy bed! At such
hour, we feel as if there were neither physical nor moral evil in the
world. The united power of peace, innocence, and beauty subdues
everything to itself, and life is love.

Forgive us, loveliest of Mornings! for having overslept the assignation
hour, and allowed thee to remain all by thyself in the solitude,
wondering why thy worshipper could prefer to thy presence the fairest
phantoms that ever visited a dream. And thou hast forgiven us--for not
clouds of displeasure these that have settled on thy forehead: the
unreproaching light of thy countenance is upon us--a loving murmur
steals into our heart from thine--and pure as a child's, daughter of
Heaven! is thy breath.

In the spirit of that invocation we look around us, and as the idea of
morning dies, sufficient for our happiness is "the light of common
day"--the imager