Part 12 (1/2)

The twilight hours came stealing by, And still I wandered free; Ten thousand stars were in the sky, Ten thousand on the sea.

For ev'ry wave with dimpled face, That leaped upon the air, Had caught a star in its embrace, And held it trembling there.

But wherefore weave such strains as these, And sing them day by day, When every bird upon the breeze Can sing a sweeter lay.

I'd give the world for their sweet art.

The simple, the divine; I'd give the world to melt one heart, As they have melted mine.

TO AMELIA.

And wouldst thou, sweet minstrel, if earth should unfold To thee all her treasures of silver and gold, Resign all thy riches, thy wealth, fame and power, To sing like the birds in the green woodland bower?

Like thee, dear Amelia, I love the wild bird, Their soft melting strains, at grey twilight, I've heard; The whippowils, then, on the cool zephyr's wing, Their clear pensive notes in rich harmony fling.

I listen each morning with heartfelt delight, While birds bid adieu to the shadows of night.

And greet in sweet anthems the bright king of day, As they through the forest are soaring away.

Yet thy flowing numbers, when breathing around, Awaken such echoes as these never found; A chord in my bosom, thy sonnet has stirred, Which never was touched by the notes of a bird.

But meekness in woman to me is so dear, I love thee the more when such language I hear; True greatness and modesty, when they combine, Like stars of the firmament sparkle and s.h.i.+ne.

The birds of the forest thy spirits can cheer, Their songs fill with music thy sensitive ear, But has that fair dove in thy heart found a nest, Whose singing can make thee eternally blest?

MOONLIGHT MUSINGS.

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A ROW OF FINE TREES NEAR MY DWELLING.

These youthful pines, a verdant row, Cast their dark shadows on the snow; Just like a picture, or a dream, Or tale of fairy lands, they seem.

I hear a soft melodious lay, The winds are with their tops at play; While moonbeams through their branches stealing, Wake up a wild romantic feeling.

The forest birds in spring will come, 'Neath these green boughs to make their home, To cheer us with their sweet wild song, To build their nests and rear their young.

Child of the wood, in infancy, I learned to love the forest tree; I'm still the same romantic creature, Admiring all the works of nature.

The rocks, the fields, the groves and flowers, Are fraught with some mysterious powers, That bind me with a pleasing spell, Which naught can break while here I dwell.

The wild bird's note, the woodland dell, Have charms beyond my power to tell; While winds are through the forest roaring, My spirit with the sound seems soaring.

The rosy morn, the sunset sky, The glitt'ring retinue on high, The sun's broad blaze, the moon's mild beams, Reflected from the lakes and streams, The lightning's flash, the thunder's roar, The ocean das.h.i.+ng on the sh.o.r.e, And meteors streaming through the air, Proclaim that G.o.d is everywhere.

THOUGHTS

SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A PETUNIA.

Fair plant, well pleased on thee I look, Thou art a page in nature's book, Which I delight to read; Though stoics set thee quite at naught, And say that none but children ought On such vain trifles spend a thought, Their words I little heed.

A child I'd ever wish to be, With an instructer just like thee, And listen to her voice; Fain wouldst thou our best pa.s.sions move, And lead our wandering thoughts above, Where, at the fount of boundless love, We ever might rejoice.