 | Forest leaves |  |
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THE WILD WOOD LYRE.
Yes, I will go down to the hemlock dell,Where the pure young breezes play,
Where the waters gush with a witching swell,
Of dreamy melody.
Where the wild bird warbles her lullaby,
As the free winds rock her nest,
And the mountain doe comes stealing by,
To her quiet place of rest.
Where the wild bee swings in the dewy flower,
With a low delicious hum,
And the diamond drops of the blessed shower
Like welcome strangers come,
Through branches, which more than a hundred years,
Have shadow'd the holy spot,
Lest the sun-beam should kiss away the tears,
Of sweet forget-me-not.
At the foot of a laurel where violets grow,
In this sweet romantic dell,
The wild wood lyre is murmuring low,
Its spirit-wild'ring spell.
Oh, dreamily tender its hymning rings,
The fairy-trod dell along,—
I will go and waken its living strings,
For harmony and song.
Awaken! wild harp of the wood-land bower!
(My hand was amongst its chords)
Oh, burden the winds with thy magic power,
And soul-entrancing words.
87
Or the precious meed of Fame;
Or chant that title all price above
The patriot's spotless name.
Or mingle those themes so pure and high,
Into one soul-thrilling tale—
Hark! from the wild lyre a shivering sigh,
A low, and plaintive wail.—
It will not respond to a touch of mine,
Or obey my prompting mind,
'Tis nature's own lyre, and is half divine,—
Its minstrel is the wind.
And now the melodious spirit comes,
I hear his viewless wings,
Like the music of myriad angels' plumes,
In earthward wanderings.
The tall trees are waving their crested heads,
Majestically slow;
The wild flowers worship, and through the shades
Their fragrant offerings flow.
Ah! now he is wooing the living strings,
Which reply so soft, and low;
As the young bruis'd heart's last murmurings
In melting music flow.
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