Puslapio vaizdai

Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet

Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed
Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,
Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice
In its own being. Softly tread the marge,
Lest from her midway perch, thou scare the wren
That dips her bill in water. The cool wind,
That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee
Like one that loves thee, nor will let thee pass
Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.


WHEN beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue-bird's warble know,

The yellow violet's modest bell

Peeps from the last year's leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower! I love, in forest bare,
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of spring
First plant thee in the watery mould;
And I have seen thee blossoming,
Beside the snow-bank's edges cold,

Thy Parent sun, who bade thee view

Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, Has bath'd thee in his own bright hue,

And streak'd with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,

When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft in the sunless April day,

Thy early smile has stay'd my walk; But 'midst the gorgeous blooms of May I pass'd thee on thy humble stalk.

So they, who climb to wealth, forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried;

I copied them-but I regret

That I should ape the ways

of pride.

And when again the genial hour
Awakes the painted tribes of light,
I'll not o'erlook the modest flower,

That made the woods of April bright.


SOON as the glaz'd and gleaming snow, Reflects the day-dawn cold and clear, The hunter of the west must go,

In depth of woods to seek the deer.

His rifle on his shoulder plac'd,

His stores of death arrang'd with skill, His mocasins and snow-shoes lac'd, Why lingers he beside the hill?

Far in the dim and doubtful light,
Where woody slopes a valley leave,
He sees what none but lover might,
The dwelling of his Genevieve.

And oft he turns his truant eye,
And pauses oft and lingers near;
But when he marks the brightening sky,
He bounds away to hunt the deer.


WHEN breezes are soft, and skies are fair, I steal an hour from study and care,

And hie me away to the woodland scene,
Where wanders the stream with waters of green,
As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink
Had given their stain to the wave they drink;
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through,
Have nam'd the stream from its own fair hue.
Yet pure
its waters, its shallows are bright
With colour'd pebbles, and sparkles of light;
And clear the depths where the eddies play,
And dimples deepen and whirl away;
And the plane-trees speckled arms o'ershoot
The swifter current that mines its root;

Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, The quivering glimmer of sun and rill

With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown,

Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone.
Oh, loveliest there the spring days come,

With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum;
The flowers of summer are fairest there,
And freshest the breath of the summer air;
And the swimmer comes, in the season of heat,
To bathe in these waters so pure and sweet.
Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunn'st to glide,
Beautiful stream! by the village side,

But windest


from haunts of men,

To silent valley, and shaded glen:

And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill,

Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still;

Lonely-save when, by thy rippling tides,
From thicket to thicket the angler glides;
Or the Simpler comes, with basket and book,
For herbs of power on thy banks to look;
Or haply some idle dreamer like me,
To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee.
Still-save the chirp of birds that feed
On the river cherry and seedy reed,
And thy own wild music, gushing out
With mellow murmur, or fairy shout,
From dawn to the blush of another day,
Like traveller singing along his way.
That fairy music I never hear

Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear,
And mark them winding away from sight,
Darken'd with shade, or flashing with light,
While o'er thee, the vine to the thicket clings,
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings,-
But I wish that fate had left me free

To wander these quiet haunts with thee,
Till the eating cares of earth should depart,
And the peace of the scene pass into
my heart;
And I envy thy stream as it glides along

Through its beautiful banks, in a trance of song.
Though forc'd to drudge for the dregs of men,

And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen;
And mingle among the jostling crowd,

Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud;

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