THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE.

BY scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting,

By furrowed glade and dell,

To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting, Thou stayest them to tell

The delicate thought, that cannot find expression,

For ruder speech too fair,

That, like thy petals, trembles in possession,

And scatters on the air.

The miner pauses in his rugged labor,

And, leaning on his spade,

One moment only, for the pick, uplifting,

Through root and fibre cleaves,

And on the muddy current slowly drifting
Are swept thy bruiséd leaves.

And yet, O poet, in thy homely fashion,

Thy work thou dost fulfil,

For on the turbid current of his passion

Thy face is shining still!

Shambling, shuffling, plantigrade,

Be thy courses undismayed!

Here, where Nature makes thy bed,

Let thy rude, half-human tread

Point to hidden Indian springs,

Lost in ferns and fragrant grasses,

Hovered o'er by timid wings,

Where the wood-duck lightly passes,