OF THE lUNlVE c »califo NATURE AND ART Poems and Pictures FROM THE BEST AUTHORS AND ARTISTS COMPILED BY LOUISE REID ESTES ILLUSTRATED WITH FOURTEEN ETCHINGS, BY RAJON, AFTER BONNAT; FORBERG, AFTER GREUZE; R. SWAIN GIFFORD, H. FARRAR, A. F. BELLOWS, GARRETT, MORAN, AND OTHERS FIFTY ILLUSTRATIONS FROM DESIGNS BY A. F. BELLOWS, GEORGE FULLER, GRANVILLE PERKINS, WM. M. HUNT, THOMAS MORAN, AND J. D. WOODWARD ENGRAVED BY W. J. LINTON. G. T. ANDREW, W. B. ClOSSON, AND G. KRUELI BOSTON ESTES AND LAURIAT 1887 Copyright, 1887, Bv ESTES AND LAURIAT. -f E CONTENTS. PAGE The Old Path James Freeman Coleman ... 9 Lines on My New Child-Sweetheart . Thomas Campbell 10 The Flight of Night Leavitt Hunt 12 June James Russell Lowell ... 15 Under the Greenwood Tree .... William Shakespeare .... 18 Our Skater Belle Anonymous 21 Those Evening Bells Thomas Moore 23 Say, Lovely Dream ! Edmund Waller 24 The Huskers John Greenleaf Whittier . . 25 Think of Me John Hamilton Reynolds . . 30 Winter Song Ludwig Hdlty 32 Song Allan Ramsay 35 The Valley Brook John Howard Bryant ... 36 By the Autumn Sea Paul Hamilton Hayne ... 40 The Return of Spring Bayard Taylor 42 To my Horse Anonymous 44 The Wayside Inn Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . 46 Sleigh Song G. W. Pettee 48 The Death of the Flowers William Cullen Bryant ... 50 Winter Thomas Sackville 52 Rock and Rill Lucy Larcom 55 Lambs at Play Robert Bloomfield 57 A Forest Hymn William Cullen Bryant ... 59 A Summer Morning William Chamberlayne ... 65 The Fountain James Russell Lowell ... 66 Girlhood Anonymous 70 Domestic Peace Samuel Taylor Coleridge. . . 73 Robin's Song H. C. Bunner 75 To Night Louise Chandler Moulton . . 79 Solitude Byron 80 To A Young Ass Samuel Taylor Coleridge. . . 81 iv CONTENTS. PAGE To Seneca Lake ......... James Gates Percival ... 83 The Sea Bryan Waller Procter ... 85 The Praise of a Countryman's Life . John Chalk/till 89 The Forest Shrine Myra Meredith 92 The Garden of Memory George Arnold 93 July J^okn Clare 97 The Edge of the Swamp William Gilmore Simms . . 99 The Shepherd Dyer 103 Thoughts in a Garden Andrew Marvell 105 The Bugle Alfred Tennyson 108 Sunset on the Kekoughton River . . James Barron Hope . . . 109 The Greenwood William Lisle Bo7vks . . . 112 To the Turtle-Dove'. £>. Conway 115 The Meeting of the Waters .... Thomas Moore 117 A Morning Walk Chaucer 119 I Remember, I Remember Thomas Hood 121 River Song . F. B. Sanborn 123 The Cataract of Lodore Robert Southey 125 Autumn Percy Bysshe Shelley . . 130 Ruth Thomas Hood 133 The Brave Old Oak Henry Fothergill Chorley . . 135 The Mother's Hope Laman Blanchard .... 137 The Falls of Minnehaha Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 140 Beware! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 142 The Old Kirk Yard Thomas Haynes Bayiy . . . 143 The Cloud Percy Bysshe Shelley . . . 145 The Ohio Ephraim Peabody .... 148 The River Saco James Gilborne Lyons . . . 149 Chocorua Lucy Larcom 150 The Angler's Wish Lzaak Walton 153 The Old House at Home Anonymous 157 "Isabella playing the Lute" .... Waller 158 FULL-PAGE ENGRAVINGS. Title. The Flight of Night . . . Under the Greenwood Tree Designer. IV. M. Hunt . Thomas Moran The Huskers C. S. Reinhart . Winter Thomas Moran . The Valley Brook Thomas Moran . Winter J. D. Woodward The Forest Thomas Moran . The Fountain J. D. Woodward . Girlhood George Fuller What Hand yon Blossom Cur- tain stirs ? H. F. Fainy . The Open Sea Granville Perkins Edge of the Swamp Granville Perkins . The Greenwood J. D. Woodward . Autumn R. S. Gifford . . Mount Chocorua T>- Huntington . . The Angler J. D. Woodward Engraver. F. Kruell . . . W. H. Morse . W. J. Linton . . J. W. Lauderbach W. H. Morse . F. W. Quartly . J. W. Lauderbach y. W. Lauderbach W. B. Closson . Page 13 19 27 33 37 53 61 67 71 Photo-Engraving Co. 77 W. J. Linton W. J. Linton J. S. Harley . J. P. Davis . J. Filmer . . J. W. Lauderbach 87 101 "3 131 'SI 155 ETCHINGS. PAGE Brother and Sister From a painting by LfiON Bonnat, etched by Paul Rajon Frontispiece "My New Child-Sweetheart." From a painting by J. B. Greuze, etched by E. Forberg lo A Day Dream. From a painting by Kaulbach, engraved by Buchel 24 By the Autumn Sea. Designed and etched by James D. Smillie 40 The Wayside Inn. Designed and etched by E. H. Garrett c 46 Winter. Designed and etched by Henry Farrer 52 Solitude. Designed and etched by R. Swain Gifford . 80 A Young Ass. Designed and etched by Peter IVIoran 82 The Forest Shrine. Etched by Forberg 92 July. Designed and etched by A. F. Bellows 98 "The Splendor Falls on Castle Walls." Designed and etched by Samuel Colman 108 "The House where I was Born." Designed and etched by E. H. Garrett 122 " A Maiden Fair to See." Designed and etched by I. M. Gaugengigl 142 The Saco River Valley. Etched by W. Wellstood, after George Inness 148 " Isabella Playing the Lute." Drawn by Leopold Muller, etched by J. Klaus 158 NATURE AND ART. :^r^ -.., THE OLD PATH. I STAND again upon the bridge, I watch the shimmering stream below, I hear the pine-trees from the ridge Repeat the music of its flow. Lulled by their low, perpetual psalm, The listening waters lingering sweep Through meadows filled with drowsy calm A dream that glorifies their sleep. lo NATURE AND ART. The eastern mountain's dewy shade Still floats upon the field of grain, Along whose edge my footsteps made Their morning pathway to the train ; The eagle-eyed autumnal flowers Guard, as of old, the rustic arch Where the procession of the hours Moved by us in melodious march; And red leaves through the sunset wood Still flicker down — like tongues of flame, Just as around her where she stood To greet me when I homeward came. But there 's no pressure on my arm. No voice upon the evening air. The path has lost its ancient charm — It leads not home — she sleeps elsewhere. James Freeman Coleman. LINES ON MY NEW CHILD-SWEETHEART. I HOLD it a religious duty To love and worship children's beauty; They 've least the taint of earthly clod, They 're freshest from the hand of God ; With heavenly looks they make us sure The heaven that made them must be pure. We love them not in earthly fashion, But with a beatific passion. I chanced to, yesterday, behold A maiden child of beauty's mould; LINES ON MY NEW CHILD-SWEETHEART. ii ' T was near, more sacred was the scene, The palace of our patriot Queen. The little charmer to my view Was sculpture brought to life anew. Her eyes had a poetic glow, Her pouting mouth was Cupid's bow ; And through her frock I could descry Her neck and shoulders' symmetry. ' T was obvious from her walk and gait Her limbs were beautifully straight. I stopped th' enchantress, and was told, Though tall, she was but four years old. Her guide so grave an aspect wore I could not ask a question more ; But followed her. The little one Threw backward ever and anon Her lovely neck, as if to say, "I know you love me, Mr. Grey;" For by its instinct childhood's eye Is shrewd in physiognomy ; They well distinguish fawning art From sterling fondness of the heart. And so she flirted, like a true, Good woman, till we bade adieu. *' T was then I with regret grew wild. Oh, beauteous, interesting child! Why ask 'd I not thy home and name ? My courage fail 'd me — more 's the shame. But where abides this jewel rare } Oh, ve that own her, tell me where ! For sad it makes my heart and sore To think I ne 'er may meet her more. Thomas Campbell. 12 NATURE AND ART, THE FLIGHT OF NIGHT. Enthroned upon her car of light, the moon Is circHng down the lofty heights of heaven : Her well-trained coursers wedge the blindest depths With fearful plunge, yet heed the steady hand That guides their lonely way. So swift her course, So bright her smile, she seems on silver wings, O'erreaching space, to glide the airy main : Behind, far-flowing, spreads her deep blue veil. Inwrought with stars that shimmer in its wave. Before the car an owl, gloom-sighted, flaps His weary way: with melancholy hoot Dispelling spectral shades that fiee. With bat-like rush, affrighted, back Within the blackest nooks of caverned Night. Still Hours of darkness wend around the car. By raven tresses half concealed : but one, With fairer locks, seems lingering back for Day. Yet all with even measured footsteps mark Her onward course. And floating in her train Repose lies nestled on the breast of Sleep, While soft Desires enclasp the waists of Dreams, And light-winged Fancies flit around in troops. Leavitt Hunt. Eh X o o X J OF THE .UNIVERSITY JUNE. And what is so rare as a day in June ? Then, if ever, come perfect days ; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays: i6 NATURE AND ART. Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice. And there 's never a leaf or a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace ; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives ; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings. And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? Now is the high-tide of the year. And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, ' T is enough for us now that the leaves are green ; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing; JUNE. 17 The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by; And if the breeze kept the good news back, For other couriers we should not lack ; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer. Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing! Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how ; Everything is happy now. Everything is upward striving; ' T is as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, — ' T is the natural way of living : Who knows whither the clouds have fled ? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake ; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed. The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; The soul partakes the season's youth. And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep ' neath a silence pure and smooth. Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. James Russell Lowell. I8 NATURE AND ART. UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither : Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleas'd with what he gets. Come hither, come hither, come hither : Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. William Shakespeare. UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OUR SKATER BELLE. Along the frozen lake she comes In Hnking crescents, Hght and fleet; The ice-imprisoned Undine hums A welcome to her little feet. I see the jaunty hat, the plume Swerve bird-like in the joyous gale, — The cheeks lit up to burning bloom, The young eyes sparkling through the vail. The quick breath parts her laughing lips. The white neck shines through tossing curls ; Her vesture gently sways and dips, As on she speeds in shell-like whirls. 22 NATURE AND ART. Men stop and smile to see her go; They gaze, they smile in pleased surprise ; They ask her name ; they long to show Some silent friendship in their eyes. She glances not ; she passes on ; Her steely footfall quicker rings ; She guesses not the benison Which follows her on noiseless wings. Smooth be her ways, secure her tread Along the devious lines of life. From grace to grace successive led, — A noble maiden, nobler wife ! Anonymous. THOSE EVENING BELLS. Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! How many a tale their music tells Of youth, and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime ! Those joyous hours are pass 'd away ; And many a heart that then was gay Within the tomb now darkly dwells. And hears no more those evening bells. And so 'twill be when I am gone, — That tuneful peal will still ring on ; While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. Thomas Moore. 24 NATURE AND ART. SAY, LOVELY DREAM! A SOIsG. Say, lovely dream! where couldst thou find Shades to counterfeit that face? Colors of this glorious kind Come not from any mortal place. In heaven itself thou sure wert dress'd With that angel-like disguise ; Thus deluded, am I blest, And see my joy with closed eyes. But, ah ! this image is too kind To be other than a dream ; Cruel Sacharissa's mind Ne'er put on that sweet extreme. Fair dream ! if thou intend'st me grace, Change that heavenly face of thine ; Paint despised love in thy face, And make it t' appear like mine. Edmund Waller [1605-87]. THE HUSKERS. It was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass again ; The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadow-flowers of May. Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and red, 'At first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he sped ; Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and subdued. On the cornfields and the orchards, and softly pictured wood. And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night, He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light ; Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified the hill ; And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, greener still. And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that sky, Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they knew not why ; And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the meadow brooks, Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks. 26 NATURE AND ART. From spire and barn looked westerly the patient weathercocks ; But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as rocks. No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel's dropping shell, And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low rustling as they fell. The summer grains were harvested ; the stubble-fields lay dry. Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green waves of rye ; But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood, Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn-crop stood. Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through husks that dry and sere, Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the yellow ear; Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a verdant fold, And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's sphere of gold. There wrought the busy harvesters ; and many a creaking wain Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk and grain ; Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank down, at last. And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in brightness passed. And lo ! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream, and pond, Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond, Slowly o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone, And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one ! As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away. And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay ; From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet without name, Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry buskers came. THE HUSKERS. 29 Swung o 'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow, Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below ; The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before. And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glim- mering o'er. Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart, Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart; While, up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade. At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played. Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair, Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair, The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue. To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking-ballad sung. John G. Whittier. THINK OF ME. Go where the water glideth gently ever, GHdeth through meadows that the greenest be- Go, listen to our own beloved river. And think of me. Wander in forests, where the small flower layeth Its fairy gem beneath the giant tree ; List to the dim brook, pining as it playeth, And think of me. And when the sky is silver-pale at even, And the wind grieveth in the lonely tree. Walk out beneath the solitary heaven, And think of me. THINK OF ME. 31 And when the moon riseth as she were dreaming, And treadeth with white feet the lulled sea, Go, silent as a star beneath her beaming, And think of me ! John Hamilton Reynolds. 32 NATURE AND ART. WINTER SONG. Summer joys are o'er: Flowerets bloom no more, Wintry winds are sweeping: Through the snow-drifts peeping, Cheerful evergreen Rarely now is seen. Now no plumed throng Charms the wood with song Ice-bound trees are glittering; Merry snow-birds, twittering, Fondly strive to cheer Scenes so cold and drear. Winter, still I see Many charms in thee, — Love thy chilly greeting, Snow-storms fiercely beating, And the dear delights Of the long, long nights. LUDWIG HOLTY. Translation of Charles T. Brooks. SONG. At setting day and rising morn, With soul that still shall love thee, I '11 ask of Heaven thy safe return, With all that can improve thee. r 11 visit aft the birken bush, Where first thou kindly told me Sweet tales of love, and hid thy blush. Whilst round thou didst infold me. To all our haunts I will repair, By greenwood shaw or fountain ; Or where the summer day I 'd share With thee upon yon mountain ; There will I tell the trees and flowers, From thoughts unfeigned and tender; By vows you 're mine, by love is yours A heart which cannot wander. Allan Ramsav. ^6 NATURE AND ART. THE VALLEY BROOK. Fresh from the fountains of the wood A rivulet of the valley came, And glided on for many a rood, Flushed with the morning's ruddy flame. The air was fresh and soft and sweet ; The slopes in Spring's new verdure lay, And wet with dew-drops at my feet Bloomed the young violets of May. No sound of busy life was heard Amid those pastures lone and still. Save the faint chirp of early bird, Or bleat of flocks along: the hill. "■!:> I traced that rivulet's winding way; New scenes of beauty opened round, Where meads of brighter verdure lay. And lovelier blossoms tinged the ground. " Ah, happy valley-stream ! " I said, " Calm glides thy wave amid the flowers, Whose fragrance round thy path is shed Through all the joyous summer hours. P5 iiiii;*«swtf i ; " i^^ ■^^ €^»L /s\. v^^^ V --^ ^AA^ Jv ^^ jTZjyf /v. 'Vj" _ ' '^\\ f >'• OF THE university; or TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 47 On roofs and doors and window-sills. Across the road the barns display Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, Through the wide doors the breezes blow. The wattled cocks strut to and fro, And, half effaced by rain and shine, The Red Horse prances on the sign. Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode Deep silence reigned, save when a gust Went rushing down the country road. And skeletons of leaves, and dust, A moment quickened by its breath, Shuddered and danced their dance of death, And through the ancient oaks o'erhead Mysterious voices moaned and fled. Henry W. Longfellow, SLEIGH SONG. Jingle, jingle, clear the way, 'Tis the merry, merry sleigh ! As it swiftly scuds along, Hear the burst of happy song ; See the gleam of glances bright, Flashing o'er the pathway white ! Jingle, jingle, past it flies. Sending shafts from hooded eyes, - Roguish archers, I'll be bound. Little heeding whom they wound; See them, with capricious pranks, Ploughing now the drifted banks ; Jingle, jingle, mid the glee Who among them cares for me ? SLEIGH SONG. 49 Jingle, jingle, on they go. Capes and bonnets white with snow. Not a single robe they fold To protect them from the cold ; Jingle, jingle, mid the storm. Fun and frolic keep them warm ; Jingle, jingle, down the hills. O'er the meadows, past the mills. Now 'tis slow, and now 'tis fast; Winter will not always last. Jingle, jingle, clear the way ! 'Tis the merry, merry sleigh. G. W. Pettee. 50 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago. And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood. And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men. And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. NATURE AND ART. 51 And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come. To call the squin-el and the bee from out their winter home ; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still. And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill. The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief ; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours. So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. William Cullen Bryant. 52 NATURE AND ART. WINTER. The wrathful winter 'preaching on apace, With blust'ring blasts had all ybared the treen, And old Saturnus with his frosty face With chilling cold had pierced the tender green ; The mantles rent, wherein enwrapped been The gladsome groves that now lay overthrown, The tapets torn, and every bloom down blown. The soil that erst so seemly was to seen. Was all despoiled of her beauty's hue; And soote fresh flowers (wherewith the summer's queen Had clad the earth) now Boreas' blasts down blew. And small fowls flocking, in their song did rue The winter's wrath, wherewith each thing defaced In woeful wise bewailed the summer past. Hawthorn had left his motley livery ; The naked twigs were shivering all for cold, And dropping down the tears abundantly; Each thing (methought) with weeping eye me told The cruel season, bidding me withhold My self within, for I was gotten out Into the fields whereas I walked about. Thomas Sackville. WINTER. ,'('.^^^?i'*";f ROCK AND RILL. " Into the sunshine out of shade ! " The rill has heard the call, And, babbling low, her answer made, — A laugh, 'twixt slip and fall. Out from her cradle-roof of trees, Over the free, rough ground ! The peaceful blue above she sees ; The cheerful green around. A pleasant world for running streams To steal unnoticed through, At play with all the sweet sky-gleams, And nothing else to do ! 56 NATURE AND ART. A rock has stopped the silent rill, And taught her how to speak ; He hinders her; she chides him still; He loves her lispings weak. And still he will not let her go ; But she may chide and sing, And o'er him liquid freshness throw, Amid her murmuring. The harebell sees herself no more In waters clear at play ; Yet never she such azure wore, Till wept on by the spray. And many a woodland violet Stays charmed upon the bank ; Her thoughtful blue eye brimming wet, The rock and rill to thank. The rill is blessing in her talk What half she held a wrong, — The happy trouble of the rock That makes her life a song. Lucy Larcom. LAMBS AT PLAY. Say, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen Spring's morning smiles, and soul-enlivening green. Say, did you give the thrilling transport way ? Did your eye brighten when young lambs at play Leaped o'er your path with animated pride. Or gazed in merry clusters by your side ? Ye who can smile — to wisdom no disgrace — At the arch meaning of a kitten's face ; NATURE AND ART. If spotless innocence, and infant mirth, Excites to praise, or gives reflection birth ; In shades like these pursue your favorite joy. Midst Nature's revels, sports that never cloy. A few begin a short, but vigorous race. And Indolence, abashed, soon flies the place; Thus challenged forth, see thither, one by one, From every side assembling playmates run ; A thousand wily antics mark their stay, A starting crowd, impatient of delay. Like the fond dove from fearful prison freed. Each seems to say, " Come, let us try our speed ; " Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong. The green turf trembling as they bound along; Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb. Where every mole-hill is a bed of thyme; There, panting, stop ; yet scarcely can refrain ; A bird, a leaf, will set them off again ; Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow. Scattering the wild-brier roses into snow, Their little limbs increasing efforts try, Like the torn flower, the fair assemblage fly. Ah, fallen rose ! sad emblem of their doom ; Frail as thyself, they perish as they bloom ! KOBERT BLOOMFIELD. A FOREST HYMN. 59 A FOREST HYMN. The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood, Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down. And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences Which, from the stilly twilight of the place. And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood. Offer one hymn, — thrice happy if it find Acceptance in His ear. Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns, thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down 6o NATURE AND ART. Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze. And shot toward heaven. The century-living crow. Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till at last they stood. As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark. Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride Report not. No fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here, — thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summit of these trees In music ; thou art in the cooler breath That from the inmost darkness of the place Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship ; — Nature, here. In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in these shades. Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak, — By whose immovable stem I stand and seem Almost annihilated, — not a prince. In all that proud old world beyond the deep, THE FOREST. OF THE university; or A FOREST HYMN. e^ E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower With scented breath, and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe. 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, 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 Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost One of Earth's charms ! upon her bosom yet. After the flight of untold centuries. The freshness of her far beginning lies, And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch-enemy Death, — yea, seats himself Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulchre, And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 64 NATURE AND ART. There have been holy men who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them; — and there have been holy men Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and in thy presence reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies. The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink And tremble, and are still. O God ! when thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, With all the waters of the firmament, The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, Uprises the great deep, and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms Its cities, — who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of thy power. His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by .'' Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath Of the mad unchained elements to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, And to the beautiful order of thy works Learn to conform the order of our lives. William Cullen Bryant A SUMMER MORNING. The morning hath not lost her virgin bhish, Nor step but mine soiled the earth's tinselled robe. How full of heaven this solitude appears, This healthful comfort of the happy swain ; Who from his hard but peaceful bed roused up, In 's morning exercise saluted is By a full choir of feathered choristers. Wedding their notes to the enamored air ! Here Nature in her unaffected dress Plaited with valleys, and embossed with hills, Enchased with silver streams, and fringed with woods. Sits lovely in her native russet. William Chamberlavne. THE FOUNTAIN. Into the sunshine, Full of light, Leaping and flashing From morn till niHit ! "»■ Into the moonlight. Whiter than snow, Waving so flower-like When the winds blow Into the starlight Rushing in spray ; Happy at midnight, Happy by day ! Ever in motion. Blithesome and cheery. Still climbing heavenward. Never aweary : — Glad of all weathers. Still seeming best, U]3ward or downward, Motion thy rest ; — THE FOUNTAIN. OF THE 'university^ OF NATURE AND ART. 69 Full of a nature Nothing can tame ; Changed every moment, Ever the same ; — Ceaseless aspiring, Ceaseless content. Darkness or sunshine Thy element ; — Glorious fountain ! Let my heart be Fresh, changeful, constant, Upward, like thee' James Russell Lowell. 70 NATURE AND ART. GIRLHOOD. An exquisite incompleteness, blossom foreshadowing fruit ; A sketch faint in its beauty, with promise of future worth ; A plant with some leaves unfolded, and the rest asleep at its root. To deck with their future sweetness the fairest thing on the earth. Womanhood, wifehood, motherhood — each a possible thing, Dimly seen through the silence that lies between then and now; Something of each and all has woven a magic ring. Linking the three together in glory on girlhood's brow. Anonymous. GIRLHOOD. ^F THE ^university! OF s£.4f-(FORN\^s DOMESTIC PEACE. Tell me, on what holy ground May domestic peace be found? Halcyon daughter of the skies, Far on fearful wings she flies From the pomp of sceptred state, From the rebel's noisy hate. In a cottaged vale she dwells, List'ning to the sabbath bells ! 74 NATURE AND ART. Still around her steps are seen Spotless Honor's meeker mien, Love, the sire of pleasing fears, Sorrow, smiling through her tears, And, conscious of the past employ, Memory, bosom-spring of joy. Coleridge. '"^S^^^^^W'S: /■ ' ROBIN'S SONG. WARWICKSHIRK, 1 6 . Up, up, my heart ! up, up, my heart, This day was made for thee ! For soon the hawthorn spray shall part. And thou a face shalt see That comes, O heart, O foolish heart, This way to gladden thee. The grass shows fresher on the way That soon her feet shall tread ; The last year's leaflet curled and gray, I could have sworn was dead. Looks green, for lying in the way 1 know her feet will tread. -jfS ROBIN'S SONG. What hand yon blossom curtain stirs, More Hght than errant air ? I know the touch — 't is hers, 't is hers ! She parts the thicket there — The flowered branch her coming stirs Hath perfumed all the air. ' The springs of all forgotten years Are waked to life anew — Up, up, my eyes, nor fill with tears As tender as the dew — 1 knew her not in all those years: But life begins anew. Up, up, my heart ! up, up, my heart. This day was made for thee ! Come, Wit, take on thy nimblest art. And win Love's victory — What now.? Where art thou, coward heart? Thy hour is here — and she ! H. C. BUNNER. M-.ili'n«,i>ifi,i..;T;rl||!'«iil*8 '/ W'/ I r t ' ' ' "-,.;. ■.\> '. * „,ul'„' .;,;.. .,, .'1,1/ 'f \ . / III / ' I f. I ^ I WHAT HAND YON BLOSSOM CURTAIN STIRS? ro NIGHT. 79 TO NIGHT. " Hesperus brings all things back That the daylight made us lack." Sappho. Bend low, O dusky Night, And give my spirit rest, Hold nie to your deep breast, And put old cares to flight. Give back the lost delight That once my soul possest. When love was loveliest. Bend low, O dusky Night! Enfold me in your arms — The sole embrace I crave. Until the embracing grave — Shield me from life's alarms. I dare your subtlest charms ; Your deepest spell I brave. O, strong to slay or save, Enfold me in your arms ! Louise Chandler Moulton. 8o NATURE AND ART. SOLITUDE. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes. By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but nature more. From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before. To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Byron. ^l OF THE {UNIVERSITY, TO A YOUNG ASS. 8i TO A YOUNG ASS. ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT. Poor little foal of an oppressed race! I love the languid patience of thy face ; And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head. But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay 'd, That never thou dost sport along the glade } And (most unlike the nature of things young) That earthward still thy moveless head is hung.? Do thy prophetic fears anticipate, Meek child of Misery ! thy future fate } — The starving meal, and all the thousand aches "Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes.?" Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain To see thy wretched mother's shorten'd chain } And, truly very piteous is her lot — Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot. Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen, While sweet around her waves the tempting green ! Poor Ass ! thy master should have learnt to show Pity — best taught by fellowship of Woe ! For much I fear me that he lives like thee. Half famish'd in a land of Luxury! How askingly its footsteps hither bend ! It seems to say, "And have I then one friend.?" 6 82 NATURE AND ART. Innocent foal ! thou poor despised forlorn ! I hail thee brother — spite of the fool's scorn I And fain would take thee with me, in the dell Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell, Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride. And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side ! How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play. And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay ! Yea!- and more musically sweet to me Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be, Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast ! Samuel Taylor Coleridge. OF "HE i^iversity) OF ■ / TO SENECA LAKE. On thy fair bosom, silver lake, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail. And round his breast the ripples break, As down he bears before the gale. On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam. And bright reflects the polar star. The waves along thy pebbly shore, As blows the north wind, heave their foam. And curl around the dashing oar. As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side. 84 NATURE AND ART. At midnight hour, as shines the moon, A sheet of silver spreads below, And swift she cuts, at highest noon. Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow/ On thy fair bosom, silver lake. Oh I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake. And evening tells us toil is o'er. James Gates Percival. THE SEA. 8s THE SEA. The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round ; It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; Or like a cradled creature lies. I 'm on the sea ! I 'm on the sea ! I am where I would ever be ; With the blue above, and the blue below. And silence wheresoe'er I go ; If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter ? / shall ride and sleep. I love. Oh! how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, ■And why the sou'west blasts do blow. I never was on the dull, tame shore. But I loved the great sea more and more, And backwards flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; And a mother she was, and is, to me ; For I was born on the open sea! 86 NATURE AND ART. The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born ; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the ocean-child ! I 've lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers, a sailor's life. With wealth to spend, and a power to range, But never have sought nor sighed for change ; And Death, whenever he comes to me. Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea! Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall). OF THE .university' OF THE PRAISE OF A COUNTRYMAN'S LIFE. On, the sweet contentment The countryman cloth find, High trolollie, lollie, lol ; high trolollie, lee ; That quiet contemplation Possesseth all my mind ; Then care away, and wend along with me. For courts are full of flattery. As hath too oft been tried, High trolollie, lollie, lol ; high trolollie, lee ; The city full of wantonness, And both are full of pride; Then care away, and wend along with nie. 90 THE PRAISE OF A COUNTRYMAN'S LIFE. But oh ! the honest countryman Speaks truly from his heart, High trolollie, lollie, lol ; high troloUie, lee ; His pride is in his tillage, His horses and his cart; Then care away, and wend along with me. Our clothing is good sheep-skins, Gray russet for our wives. High trolollie, lollie, lol ; high trolollie, lee ; 'T is warmth and not gay clothing That doth prolong our lives ; Then care away, and wend along with me. The ploughman, though he labor hard, Yet on the holy day, High trolollie, lollie, lol ; high trolollie, lee ; No emperor so merrily Does pass his time away ; Then care away, and wend along with me. To recompense our tillage The heavens afford us showers, High trolollie, lollie, lol ; high trolollie, lee ; And for our sweet refreshments The earth affords us bowers ; Then care away, and wend along with me. The cuckoo and the nightingale Full merrily do sing. High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; And with their pleasant roundelays Bid welcome to the spring ; Then care away, and wend along with me. NATURE AND ART. 91 This is not half the happiness The countryman enjoys, High trololHe, loUie, lol ; high troloUie, lee ; Though others think they have as much, Yet he that says so lies ; Then care away, and wend along with me. John Chalkhill. 92 THE FOREST SHRINE. THE FOREST SHRINE. Holy Mother! Holy Son At Thy feet ere day's begun Here I humbly kneel. Guide my youthful steps aright Till the coming of the night ; Hear my earnest prayer. Let the sins of yesterday By Thy blood be washed away, Thou canst make me pure. Lead me through life's work to Thee, Unto all eternity I would do Thy will. Myra Meredith. OP T HE ^UN/VERs/r THE GARDEN OF MEMORY. There is a garden which my memory knows, A grand old garden of the days gone by, Where lofty trees invite the breeze, And underneath them blooms full many a rose. Of rarest crimson or deep purple dye ; And there extend as far as eye can see. Dim vistas of cool greenery. Quaint marble statues, clothed with vines and mould. Gleam gray and spectral 'mid the foliage there ; Grimly they stand on every hand, Along the walk whose sands are smoothly rolled, And borders trimmed with constant, watchful care ; There Memory sits, and hears soft voices call Above the plashing waterfall. 94 THE GARDEN OF MEMOR V. Old, faded bowers, with their rustic seats Of knotted branches closely intertwined. May there be seen, the walks between ; Within their sliade the dove at noon retreats. And gives her sad voice to the summer wind ; Around them bloom rich flowers, where all day long The wild bee drones his dreamy song. The garden stretches downward to a lake. Where gentle ripples kiss a pebbly shore ; All cool and deep the waters sleep. With naught the calm of their repose to break Save now and then the plashing of an oar, Or the long train of diamond sparkles bright Left by the wayward swallow's flight. NATURE AND ART. 95 Within the garden •■-•7-^^^T7/^''7^;^;s*^j^^-^^W^--- oft recalls '- Gay friends, who lived, and loved, and passed away ; Who met at morn upon the lawn, And strolled in couples by the garden-walls. Or on the grass beneath the maples lay. And passed the hours as gayly as might be. With olden tales of chivalry. The younger maidens, each with silken net. Chased butterflies that hung, on painted wings, Above the beds where poppy-heads Drooped heavily with morning dew-drops wet ; In recollection still their laughter rings, And still I seem to see them sport among The statues gray, with vines o'erhung. 96 THE GARDEN OF MEMOR Y. One sainted maiden I remember well, And shall remember, though all else should fade; Her dreamy eyes, her gentle sighs. Her golden hair in tangled curls that fell, Her queen-like beauty and demeanor staid, And O, her smile, that played at hide-and-seek With dimples on her chin and cheek ! O Edith ! often have we sat at rest. And watched the sunset from the Lover's Hill, When few, faint stars shone through the bars Of purple cloud that stretched athwart the west ; And nature's pulse seemed silently to. thrill, While night came o'er the moorlands wide and brown. On dusky pinions sweeping down. Long years have faded since those happy days, Yet still in memory are their joys enshrined. Tall grasses wave o'er Edith's grave ; Above her breast the birds sing plaintive lays; Yet still I feel her arms about me twined ; Still float her tangled tresses in the breeze ; Still sit we 'neath the maple-trees. Thus may it be, until I too am gone ! Thus let me ever dream of youth and love ! And when the strife of earthly life Is past; when all my weary tasks are done, I know that in some garden there, above. My angel Edith waits to welcome me Unto thy halls, Eternity! George Arnold. NATURE AND ART. 97 JULY. Loud is the Summer's busy song, The smallest breeze can find a tongue, While insects of each tiny size Grow teasing with their melodies, Till noon burns with its blistering breath Around, and day lies still as death. The busy noise of man and brute Is on a sudden lost and mute ; Even the brook that leaps along. Seems weary of its bubbling song, And, so soft its waters creep. Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep; The cricket on its bank is dumb ; The very flies forget to hum ; And, save the wagon rocking round. The landscape sleeps without a sound. The breeze is stopped, the lazy bough Hath not a leaf that danceth now; The taller grass upon the hill. And spider's threads, are standing still ; The feathers, dropped from moorhen's wing Which to the water's surface clins. Are steadfast, and as heavy seem As stones beneath them in the stream ; 7 98 JUL Y. Hawkweed and groundsel's fanny downs Unruffled keep their seedy crowns; And in the overheated air Not one light thing is floating there, Save that to the earnest eye The restless heat seems twittering by. Noon swoons beneath the heat it made, And flowers e'en within the shade ; Until the sun slopes in the west, Like weary traveller, glad to rest On pillowed clouds of many hues. Then Nature's voice its joy renews. And checkered field and grassy plain Hum with their summer songs again, A requiem to the day's decline, Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine As welcome to day's feeble powers As falling dews to thirsty flowers. John Clare. \\^- Ml 't' l^i' ^.^ v-C ^*' n 'I K ui^ttx: un,^ °'rHP>^ ..or ' ^ ' ^PORNIA NATURE AND ART. 99 THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP. 'T IS a wild spot, and hath a gloomy look ; The bird sings never merrily in the trees, And the young leaves seem blighted. A rank growth Spreads poisonously round, with power to taint With blistering dews the thoughtless hand that dares To penetrate the covert. Cypresses Crowd on the dank, wet earth ; and, stretched at length, The cayman — a fit dweller in such home — Slumbers, half buried in the sedgy grass. Beside the green ooze where he shelters him, A whooping crane erects his skeleton form. And shrieks in flight. Two summer ducks, aroused To apprehension, as they hear his cry, Dash up from the lagoon, with marvellous haste, Following his guidance. Meetly taught by these. And startled at our rapid, near approach, The steel-jawed monster, from his grassy bed, Crawls slowly to his slimy, green abode, Which straight receives him. You behold him now. His ridgy back uprising as he speeds. In silence, to the centre of the stream. Whence his head peers alone. A butterfly, That, travelling all the day, has counted climes Only by flowers, to rest himself awhile Lights on the monster's brow. The surly mute Straightway goes down, so suddenly that he, loo THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP. The dandy of the summer flowers and woods, Dips his light wings, and spoils his golden coat, With the rank water of that turbid pond. Wondering and vexed, the plumed citizen Flies, with a hurried effort, to the shore, Seeking his kindred flowers ; but seeks in vain, — Nothing of genial growth may there be seen, Nothing of the beautiful ! Wild, ragged trees, That look like felon spectres, — fetid shrubs. That taint the gloomy atmosphere, — dusk shades That gather, half a cloud, and half a fiend In aspect, lurking on the swamp's wild edge, — Gloom with their sternness and forbidding frowns The general prospect. The sad butterfly. Waving his lackered wings, darts quickly on, And, by his free flight, counsels us to speed For better lo'dgings, and a scene more sweet Than these drear borders offer us to-night. William Gilmore Simms. cu s < ^ o P OF THE ^university! OF THE SHEPHERD. Ah, gentle Shepherd ! thine the lot to tend, Of all that feel distress, the most assailed, Feeble, defenceless ; lenient be thy care ; But spread around thy tenderest diligence In flowery Spring-time, when the new-dropp'd lamb, Tottering with weakness by his mother's side. Feels the fresh world about him ; and each thorn, Hillock, or furrow, trips his feeble feet ; I04 THE SHEPHERD. Oh ! guard his meek, sweet innocence from all Th' innumerous ills that rush around his life ; Mark the quick kite, with beak and talons prone. Circling the skies to snatch him from the plain ; Observe the lurking crows; beware the brake, — There the sly fox the careless minute waits; Nor trust thy neighbor's dog, nor earth, nor sky ; Thy bosom to a thousand cares divide. Eurus oft flings his hail ; the tardy fields Pay not their promised food ; and oft the dam O'er her weak twins with empty udder mourns, Or fails to guard, when the bold bird of prey Alights, and hops in many turns around, And tires her also turning ; to her aid Be nimble, and the weakest in thine arms Gently convey to the warm cote, and oft. Between the lark's note and the nightingale's, His hungry bleating still with tepid milk ; — In this soft office may thy children join, And charitable actions learn in sport. Nor yield him to himself ere vernal airs Sprinkle thy little croft with daisy flowers ; Nor yet forget him ; life has rising ills. Dyer. THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labors see Crown'd from some single herb or tree. Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close, To weave the garlands of Repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here. And Innocence, thy sister dear ? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men. Your sacred plants, if here below. Only among the plants will grow; Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude. io6 NATURE AND ART. No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name ; Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties her exceed ! Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound. No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, who mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race ; Apollo hunted Daphne so Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wondrous life is this I lead ! Ripe apples drop about my head ; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach ; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness, — The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find ; - THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. 107 Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas ; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's slidina: foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide ; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden state While man there walk'd without a mate; After a place so pure and sweet. What other help could yet be meet.? But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there ; Two paradises are in one, To live in Paradise alone. How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new ! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run ; And, as it works, th' industrious bee. Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers } Andrew Marvell. io8 NATURE AND ART. THE BUGLE. FROM THE PRINCESS. The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story ; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying; Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark ! O hear ! how thin and clear. And thinner, clearer, farther going ! O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O, love, they die in yon rich sky. They faint on hill or field or river; Our echoes roll from soul to soul. And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. Alfred Tennyson. OF THE |UNIVERSITV SUNSET ON THE KEKOUGHTON RIVER. 109 SUNSET ON THE KEKOUGHTON RIVER. See the scattered clouds of evening, — Lattice bars across the blue, — Where the moon in pallid beauty Like an angel gazes through ! Over all the winding river, By the fading sunset kissed, Slowly rises up the vapor In a cloud of ghostly mist. While the eve is slowly turning Its last grains of golden sand, What a holy quiet hovers Over all the drowsy land ! There is now the spell of silence. Of a silence calm and deep, Over all the placid waters Where the pale mist seems asleep. And the vessels, slowly gliding Down the river to the bay. Show on spreading sheets of canvas Tints that change from red to gray. no NATURE AND ART. All is quiet, save the murmur Of the tide upon the bar ; See each little breaker playing With the image of a star ! And 't is thus that human creatures, Bowed with age, or fresh in youth. Give back brokenly the image Of each grand, celestial truth. SUNSET ON THE KEKOUGHTON RIVER. Ill Now the brooding silence deepens, And the scene is one of rest, As the wrecked day drifts down grandly To be stranded in the west, On yon rugged coast of Cloudland High above the village spire, On its mighty, purple headlands And its crags all tipped with fire. James Bakron Hope. •■ ■ ■■-■i'::-isf--M-^ 112 NATURE AND ART. THE GREENWOOD. O, WHEN 't is summer weather, And the yellow bee, with fairy sound, The waters clear is humming round, And the cuckoo sings unseen. And the leaves are waving green, — O, then 't is sweet, In some retreat. To hear the murmuring dove, With those whom on earth alone we love. And to wind through the greenwood together. But when 't is winter weather. And grasses grieve, And friends deceive. And rain and sleet The lattice beat, — O, then 'tis sweet To sit and sing Of the friends with whom, in the days of spring. We roamed through the greenwood together. William Lisle Bowles THE GREENWOOD. TO THE TURTLE DOVE. Deep in the wood, thy voice I list, and love Thy soft complaining song, thy tender cooing ; O what a winning way thou hast of wooing ! Gentlest of all thy race — sweet Turtle-dove ! Thine is a note that doth not pass away, Like the light music of a summer's day ; The merle may trill his richest song in vain — Scarce do we say, " List ! for he pipes again ; " But thou ! that low plaint oft and oft repeating To the coy mate that needs so much entreating. ii6 TO THE TURTLE DOVE. Fillest the woods with a discursive song Of love, that sinketh deep, and resteth long ; Hushing the voice of mirth, and staying folly, And waking in the heart a gentle melancholy. D. Conway. THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale, in whose bosom the bright waters meet; Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must depart Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart Ii8 THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, — Oh, no! it was something more exquisite still. 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet Vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love. best; Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. Thomas Moore. A MORNING WALK. I ROSE anone and thought I woulde gone Into the woode, to heare the birdes sing, Whan that the misty vapour was agone, And cleare and faire was the morning, The dewe also like silver in shining: Upon the leaves, as any baume swete. Till fiery Titan with his persant hete Had dried up the lusty licour newe. Upon the herbes in the grene mede. And that the floures of many divers hue. Upon hir stalkes gon for to sprede. And for to splay out hir leves in brede Againe the Sunne, gold burned in his spere. That doune to hem cast his beames clere. I20 NATURE AND ART. And by a river forth I gan costay, Of water clere, as birell or cristall, Till at the last I found a little way, Toward a parke, enclosed with a wall, In compace rounde, and by a gate small, Who so that would, might freely gone Into this parke, walled with grene stone. And in I went to hcare the birdes song, Which on the branches, both in plaine and vale. So loud sang, that all the wood rong. Like as it should shiver in peeces small, And, as me thought, that the nightingale With so great might her voice gan out wrest. Right as her herte for love would brest. Chaucer. / REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 121 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn ; He never came a wink too soon. Nor brought too long a day ; But now I often wish the ni^hl Had borne my breath away. I remember, I remember The roses, red and white ; The violets and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light ! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday, — The tree is living yet ! I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing; And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing ; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow ! 122 NATURE AND ART. I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky ; It was a childish ignorance, But now ' t is little joy To know I 'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy. Thomas Hood. OF THE UNIVERSIT OF r'^fe^ RIVER SONG. CoxME to the river's reedy shore, My maiden, while the skies, With blushes fit to grace thy cheek, Wait for the sun's uprise; 124 NATURE AND ART. There, dancing on the rippling wave, My boat expectant lies, And jealous flowers, as thou goest by, Unclose their dewy eyes. As slowly down the stream we glide. The lilies all unfold Their leaves, less rosy white than thou. And virgin hearts of gold ; The gay birds on the meadow elm Salute thee blithe and bold, While I sit shy and silent here. And glow with love untold. F. B. Sanborn. THE CATARACT OF LODORE. 125 THE CATARACT OF LODORE. " How does the water Come down at Lodore?" My little boy asked me Thus once on a time ; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme. Anon, at the word, There first came one daughter, And then came another, To second and third The request of their brother, And to hear how the water Comes down at Lodore, With its rush and its roar, As many a time They had seen it before. So I told them in rhyme, For of rhymes I had store ; And 'twas in my vocation For their recreation That so I should sing, Because I was Laureate To them and the King. 126 NATURE AND ART. From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell ; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills, — Through moss and through brake It runs and it creeps For a while, till it sleeps In its own little lake. And thence at departing, Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry. Helter-skelter, Hurry-skurry. Here it comes sparkling. And there it lies darkling ; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in. Till, in this rapid race On which it is bent, It reaches the place Of its steep descent. The cataract strong Then plunges along, Striking and raging. As if a war waging Its caverns and rocks among ; Rising and leaping. THE CATARACT OF LODORE. Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing, Flying and flinging. Writhing and ringing, Eddying and whisking. Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting, Around and around With endless rebound ! Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in : Confounding, astounding. Dizzying and deafening the eai with its sound. 128 NATURE AND ART. Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading. And whizzing and hissing, •^ And dripping and skipping, And hitting and splitting. And shining and twining, And rattling and battling. And shaking and quaking. And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving. And tossing and crossing, And flowing and going. And running and stunning. And foaming and roaming. And dinning and spinning, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking. And guggling and struggling. And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning; And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering. And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering. And hurrying and skurrying. And thundering and floundering; Dividing and gliding and sliding. And falling and brawling and sprawling. THE CATARACT OF LODORE. 129 And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding. And bubbling and troubling and doubling, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering : Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting. Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing. Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling. And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing. And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling. And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping. And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing : And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending. All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar : And this way the water comes down at Lodore. Robert Southey. I30 NATURE AND ART. AUTUMN. A DIRGE. The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. Come, months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array ; Follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling. The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling For the year ; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling ; Come, months, come away ; Put on white, black, and gray; Let your light sisters play — Ye, follow the bier Of the dead cold year. And make her grave green with tear on tear. Percy Bysshe Shelley. Eh RUTH. She stood breast high amid the corn, Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun Who many a glowing kiss had won. 134 RUTH. On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripen'd ; — such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn. Round her eyes her tresses fell — Which were blackest none could tell ; But long lashes veil'd a light That had else been all too bright. And her hat, with shady brim. Made her tressy forehead dim ; — Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks. Sure, I said. Heaven did not mean Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; Lay thy sheaf adovvn and come. Share my harvest and my home. Thomas Hood. THE BRAVE OLD OAK. A SONG to the oak, the brave old oak, Who hath ruled in the greenwood long; Here 's health and renown to his broad green crown. And his fifty arms so strong. There 's fear in his frown when the sun goes down, And the fire in the west fades out; And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, When the storms through his branches shout. 136 THE BRAVE OLD OAK. Then here 's to the oak, the brave old oak, Who stands in his pride alone; And still flourish he, a hale green tree, When a hundred years are gone ! In the days of old, when the spring with cold Had brightened his branches gray. Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet. To gather the dew of May. And on that day to the rebeck gay They frolicked with lovesome swains ; They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid. But the tree it still remains. Then here 's, etc. He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes Were a merry sound to hear, When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small Were filled with good English cheer. Now gold hath the sway we all obey, And a ruthless king is he ; But he never shall send our ancient friend To be tossed on the stormy sea. Then here's, etc. Henry Fothergill Chorley. THE MOTHER'S HOPE. Is there, where the winds are singing In the happy summer time, — Where the raptured air is ringing With Earth's music heavenward springing, Forest chirp, and village chime, — Is there, of the sounds that float Unsighingly, a single note Half so sweet and clear and wild As the laughter of a child? 138' NATURE AND ART. Listen ! and be now delighted ; Mom hath touched her golden strings: Earth and Sky their vows have plighted ; Life and Light are reunited Amid countless carollings : Yet, delicious as they are, There 's a sound that 's sweeter far, — One that makes the heart rejoice More than all, — the human voice ! Organ finer, deeper, clearer. Though it be a stranger's tone, — Than the winds or waters dearer. More enchanting to the hearer, For it answereth to his own. But, of all its witching words, Sweeter than the song of birds. Those are sweetest, bubbling wild Through the laughter of a child. Harmonies from time-touched towers, Haunted strains from rivulets. Hum of bees among the flowers, Rustling leaves, and silver showers, — These, ere long, the ear forgets: But in mine there is a sound Ringing on the whole year round, — Heart-deep laughter that I heard Ere my child could speak a word. Ah! 'twas heard by ear far purer, Fondlier formed to catch the strain, — Ear of one whose love is surer, — THE MOTHER'S HOPE. ■ 139 Hers, the mother, the endurer Of the deepest share of pain ; Hers the deepest bliss to treasure Memories of that cry of pleasure ; Hers to hoard, a lifetime after. Echoes of that infant laughter. 'Tis a mother's large affection Hears with a mysterious sense, — Breathings that evade detection. Whisper faint and fine inflection. Thrill in her with power intense. Childhood's honeyed words untaught Hiveth she in loving thought, — Tones that never thence depart ; For she listens — with her heart. Laman Blanchard. I40 NATURE AND ART. THE FALLS OF MINNEHAHA. This was Hiawatha's wooing! Thus it was he won the daughter Of the ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the Dacotahs ! From the wigwam he departed, Leading with him Laughing Water ; Hand in hand they went together, Throuo-h the woodland and the meadow. Left the old man standing lonely At the doorway of his wigwam, Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to them from the distance, Crying to them from afar ofif, "Fare thee well, O Minnehaha!" And the ancient Arrow-maker Turned again unto his labor. Sat down by his sunny doorway. Murmuring to himself, and saying : " Thus it is our daughters leave us, Those we love, and those who love us ! Just when they have learned to help us, When we are old and lean upon them. Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, With his flute of reeds, a stranger Wanders piping through the village, Beckons to the fairest maiden, And she follows where he leads her. Leaving all things for the stranger ! " Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 142 NATURE AND ART. BEWARE! FROM THE GERMAN. I KNOW a maiden fair to see, Take care ! She can both false and friendly be, Beware ! Beware ! Trust her not, She is fooling thee ! She has two eyes, so soft and brown, Take care ! She gives a side-glance and looks down. Beware ! Beware ! Trust her not, She is fooling thee ! And she has hair of a golden hue. Take care ! And what she says, it is not true. Beware ! Beware ! Trust her not, She is fooling thee ! She has a bosom as white as snow. Take care! She knows how much it is best to show, Beware ! Beware ! Trust her not, She is fooling thee ! She gives thee a garland woven fair. Take care ! It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear. Beware ! Beware ! Trust her not. She is fooling thee ! H. W. Longfellow. '.Wpf^^ OF THE I^university; OF THE OLD KIRK YARD. Oh ! come, come with me, to the old kirk yard, I well know the path through the soft green sward. Friends slumber there we were wont to regard. We '11 trace out their names in the old kirk yard. 144 NATURE AND ART. Oh ! mourn not for them, their grief is o'er, Oh ! weep not for them, they weep no more, For deep is their sleep, though cold and hard Their pillow may be in the old kirk yard. I know it is in vain, when friends depart. To breathe kind words to a broken heart ; I know that the joy of life seems marr'd When we follow them home to the old kirk yard. But were I at rest beneath yon tree, Why shouldst thou weep, dear love, for me : I 'm wayworn and sad, ah ! why then retard The rest that I seek in the old kirk yard ? Thomas Haynes Bayly. THE CLOUD. I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams ; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet birds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast ; And all the night 't is my pillow white. While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skyey bovvers Lightning, my pilot, sits ; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits ; Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 146 THE CLOUD. This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea ; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. The Spirit he loves remains ; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain-crag. Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardors of rest and of love. And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above. With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest. As still as a brooding dove. '» That orbed maiden with white fire laden. Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor. By the midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. Which only the angels hear. May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer ; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, NATURE AND ART. I47 Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each paved with the moon and these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone. And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea. Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof. The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow. When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-colored bow ; The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove. While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of earth and water. And the nursling of the sky ; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when, with never a stain. The pavilion of heaven is bare. And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams. Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain. Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. Percy Bysshe Shelley. THE OHIO. Flow on, thou glorious river, Thy mountain-shores between, To where the Mexique's stormy waves Dash on savannas green. . • • • • Flow on, thou mighty river! High-road of nations, flow ! And thou shalt flow, when all the woods Upon thy sides are low. Yes, thou shalt flow eternally, Though on thy peopled shore The rising town and dawning state Should sink to rise no more. Ephraim Peabody. s t ij hJ p} ^ c^ t: v^ ^ H > 1 o 1 o ^ < pi w '4 Of THE ■UNlVERSITYi NATURE AND ART. 149 THE RIVER SACO. From Agiochook's granite steeps, Fair Saco rolls in chainless pride, Rejoicing as it laughs and leaps Down the gray mountain's rugged side ; — The stern rent crags and tall dark pines Watch that young pilgrim flashing by. While close above them frowns or shines The black torn cloud, or deep blue sky. Soon gathering strength it swiftly takes Through Bartlett's vales its tuneful way. Or hides in Conway's fragrant brakes. Retreating from the glare of day ; — Now, full of vigorous life, it springs From the strong mountain's circling arms. And roams, in wide and lucid rings. Among green Fryeburg's woods and farms. Here with low voice it comes and calls For tribute from some hermit lake. And here it wildly foams and falls. Bidding the forest echoes wake ; — Now sweeping on it runs its race By mound and mill in playful glee ; — Now welcomes, with its pure embrace. The vestal waves of Ossipee. ISO NATURE AND ART. At last, with loud and solemn roar, Spurning- each rocky ledge and bar, It sinks where, on the sounding shore, The broad Atlantic heaves afar; — There, on old ocean's faithful breast. Its wealth of waves it proudly flings. And there its weary waters rest. Clear as they left their crystal springs. Sweet stream ! it were a fate divine, Till this world's toils and tasks were done. To go, like those bright floods of thine, Refreshing all, enslaved by none, — To pass through scenes of calm and strife, Singing, like thee, with holy mirth. And close in peace a varied life. Unsullied by one stain of earth. James Gilborne Lyons. CHOCORUA. The pioneer of a great company That wait behind him, gazing toward the east, — Mighty ones all, down to the nameless least, — ' Though after him none dares to press, where he With bent head listens to the minstrelsy Of far waves chanting to the moon, their priest. What phantom rises up from winds deceased .'' What whiteness of the unapproachable sea.^* Hoary Chocorua guards his mystery well ; He pushes back his fellows, lest they hear The haunting secret he apart must tell To his lone self, in the sky-silence clear. A shadowy, cloud-cloaked wraith, with shoulders bowed. He steals, conspicuous, from the mountain-crowd. Lucy Larcom. <; Pi O o o K o o THE ANGLER'S WISH. 153 THE ANGLER'S WISH. I IN these flowery meads would be ; These crystal streams should solace me ; To whose harmonious bubbling noise I, with my angle, would rejoice, Sit here, and see the turtle-dove Court his chaste mate to acts of love ; Or, on that bank, feel the west wind Breathe health and plenty; please my mind. To see sweet dewdrops kiss these flowers, And then wash'd off by April showers ; Here, hear my Kenna sing a song; There, see a blackbird feed her young, Or a leverock build her nest; Here, give my weary spirits rest. And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above Earth, or what poor mortals love. Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise Of princes' courts, I would rejoice ; 154 NATURE AND ART. Or, with my Bryan and a book, Loiter long days near Shawford brook; There sit by him, and eat my meat; There see the sun both rise and set; There bid good-morning to next day; There meditate my time away ; And angle on, and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave. IzAAK Walton. THE ANGLER. !i5&\L'^