Yet fair as thou art, thou shunn'st to glide,

Beautiful stream.! by the village side;
But windest away from the haunts of men,
To quiet valley and shaded glen;

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35

And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill,
Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still. 39
Lonely save when, by thy rippling tides,
From thicket to thicket the angler glides;
Or the simpler comes, with basket and book,
For herbs of power on thy banks to look;
Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me,
To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee,
Still save the chirp of birds that feed
On the river cherry and seedy reed,
And thy own wild music gushing out
With mellow murmur of fairy shout,
From dawn, to the blush of another day,
Like traveler singing along his way.

That fairy music I never hear,

40

Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear,
And mark them winding away from sight, 45
Darkened with shade or flashing with light,
While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings,
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings,
But I wish that fate had left me free
To wander these quiet haunts with thee, 50
Till the eating cares of earth should depart,
And the peace of the scene pass into my
heart;

And I envy thy stream, as it glides along, Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song.

And all was white. The pure keen air abroad,

40

Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee, Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept

Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds That lay along the boughs, instinct with life, Patient, and waiting with the soft breath of Spring,

Feared not the piercing spirit of the North. 45 The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough;

And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent

Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves, The partridge found a shelter. Through the

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My heart is awed within me when I think Of the great miracle that still goes on, In silence, round me the perpetual work Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed Forever. Written on thy works I read The lesson of thy own eternity.

Lo! all grow old and die- but see again, 75 How on the faltering footsteps of decay Youth presses ever gay and beautiful youth In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Molder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost

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