« PreviousContinue »
THE FORERUNNERS.-R. W. Emerson.
LONG I followed happy guides,
Their near camp my spirit knows
THE SUMMER EVENING. – Clare.
The sinking sun is taking leave, And sweetly gilds the edge of eve, While huddling clouds of purple dye Gloomy hang the western sky; Crows crowd croaking overhead, Hastening to the woods to bed ; Cooing sits the lonely dove, Calling home her absent love ; From the hay-cock's moistened heaps, Startled frogs take vaulting leaps, And along the shaven mead, Jumping travellers, they proceed ; Quick the dewy grass divides, Moistening sweet their speckled sides. From the grass or floweret's cup, Quick the dew-drop bounces up. Now the blue fog creeps along, And the bird 's forgot his song; Flowers now sleep within their hoods, Daisies button into buds; From soiling dew the buttercup Shuts his golden jewels up; And the rose and woodbine, they Wait again the smiles of May.
TO THE RAINBOW.
'Neath the willow's wavy boughs,
TO THE RAINBOW. - Campbell.
When storms prepare to part,
Still seem as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given, For happy spirits to alight
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that Optics teach unfold
Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamed of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?
When Science from creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place
To cold, material laws !
And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.
When o'er the green, undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign?
And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child,
To bless the bow of God.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang
And the first poet sang.
HYMN OF THE CHEROKEE INDIAN,
Nor ever shall the Muse's eye,
Unraptured greet thy beam ; - Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme !
The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings, —
The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle cast
O’er mountain, tower, and town;
A thousand fathoms down !
As fresh as yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
First sported in thy beam.
For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span;
That first spoke peace to man.
HYMN OF THE CHEROKEE INDIAN. - I. McLellan, Jr.
LIKE the shadows in the stream,