SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. And rocking on the cliff was left The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow I heard the distant waters dash, And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, The woods were bending with a silent reach. The music of the village bell Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, Was ringing to the merry shout, That faint and far the glen sent out, Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep Go to the woods and hills!-No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows; THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, As to the sunshine and the pure bright air, Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, Their old poetic legends to the wind. And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds The heaven of April, with its changing light, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, It is so like the gentle air of Spring, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes To have it round us,-and her silver voice Is the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. Ox sunny slope and beechen swell, At sunset, in its brazen leaves. Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone; An image of the silver lakes, By which the Indian's soul awakes. But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred |