Thy crimes of old. In yonder mingling lights Thou shalt arise from midst the dust and sit And Europe shall be stirred throughout her realms, The wailing of the childless shall not cease. Of fraud and lust of gain ;-thy treasury drained, Shall put new strength into thy heart and hand, And God and thy good sword shall yet work out, For thee, a terrible deliverance. A SUMMER RAMBLE. THE quiet August noon has come, A slumberous silence fills the sky, The fields are still, the woods are dumb, In glassy sleep the waters lie. And mark yon soft white clouds that rest The cattle on the mountain's breast Oh, how unlike those merry hours And woodlands sing and waters shout. When in the grass sweet voices talk, From every nameless blossom's bell. But now a joy too deep for sound, Away! I will not be, to-day, The only slave of toil and care. Away from desk and dust! away! I'll be as idle as the air. Beneath the open sky abroad, Among the plants and breathing things, The sinless, peaceful works of God, I'll share the calm the season brings. Come, thou, in whose soft eyes I see The gentle meanings of thy heart, One day amid the woods with me, From men and all their cares apart. And where, upon the meadow's breast, The blue wild flowers thou gatherest Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes. Come, and when mid the calm profound, Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade, The village trees their summits rear As chiselled from the lifeless rock. One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks— There the hushed winds their sabbath keep, While a near hum from bees and brooks Comes faintly like the breath of sleep. Well may the gazer deem that when, Like this deep quiet that, awhile, Welcomes him to a happier shore. A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE HUDSON. COOL shades and dews are round my way, And silence of the early day; Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed, Glitters the mighty Hudson spread, Unrippled, save by drops that fall From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall; And o'er the clear still water swells The music of the Sabbath bells. All, save this little nook of land Seems a blue void, above, below, Through which the white clouds come and go, And from the green world's farthest steep Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth, that soonest pass away. |