And rocking on the cliff was left The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. The veil of cloud was lifted, and below Or glistened in the white cascade; Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash, And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, The woods were bending with a silent reach. Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, 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. THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. And frequent, on the everlasting hills, In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees, In many a lazy syllable, repeating Their old poetic legends to the wind. And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature, of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, |