 | Miami Woods : a golden wedding and other poems |  |
231
The Mountain Paths.
Come to the hills with me!
Come tread the cool and flow'r-gem'd paths, that wind
'Neath many a stately tree—
Trees that for aye have lined
The airy summits of our Western Land:
The stars are fading, and the air is bland.
Come tread the cool and flow'r-gem'd paths, that wind
'Neath many a stately tree—
Trees that for aye have lined
The airy summits of our Western Land:
The stars are fading, and the air is bland.
Come to the hills with me!
The fresh-lipp'd Morn is breathing glorious life:
Don thy calash, and flee
The city's dust and strife;
Leave thy prunelle, and silken hose,—and take
Cotton and calf-skin!—quick, thy toilet make!
The fresh-lipp'd Morn is breathing glorious life:
Don thy calash, and flee
The city's dust and strife;
Leave thy prunelle, and silken hose,—and take
Cotton and calf-skin!—quick, thy toilet make!
Here—take the garden's pride!
Thy cheek, like it, will soon be rosy-fair.
Now for the green hill side,
And the pure upland air!
Death floats in every breeze that fans us here—
Oh, for the cottage of the mountaineer!
Thy cheek, like it, will soon be rosy-fair.
Now for the green hill side,
And the pure upland air!
Death floats in every breeze that fans us here—
Oh, for the cottage of the mountaineer!
232
So—we are winding up;
The fair stars have not all yet left the sky:
There—pluck that honey-cup!
Thy slender hand will vie
With it in whiteness; and—but I forget—
Dark eyes compare not with the violet:
The fair stars have not all yet left the sky:
There—pluck that honey-cup!
Thy slender hand will vie
With it in whiteness; and—but I forget—
Dark eyes compare not with the violet:
Still, pluck it too; I'll call
Thine bright as any star, in any place.
Nay—let thy bonnet fall
Back from thy radiant face!
Heart's-ease, anemone, shrub, rose-of-May;
—Whither thine eyes now? Ah! the King of Day!
Thine bright as any star, in any place.
Nay—let thy bonnet fall
Back from thy radiant face!
Heart's-ease, anemone, shrub, rose-of-May;
—Whither thine eyes now? Ah! the King of Day!
Gloriously comes he there!
Morn on the hills! One hour of life like this,
Pays for whole weeks of care;
Earth scarce hath greater bliss:
Yet “angel visits” are almost as many
As visits to the hills—They turn no penny!
Morn on the hills! One hour of life like this,
Pays for whole weeks of care;
Earth scarce hath greater bliss:
Yet “angel visits” are almost as many
As visits to the hills—They turn no penny!
What life is this I feel?
A new sensation thrills through every vein:
And glowing fancies steal
Athwart my wondering brain:
Visions of Eld—hopes—aspirations—fears
That vanish soon—bright dreams of coming years!
A new sensation thrills through every vein:
And glowing fancies steal
Athwart my wondering brain:
Visions of Eld—hopes—aspirations—fears
That vanish soon—bright dreams of coming years!
233
'Neath these old oaks and elms,
The spirit hath a fullness of delight—
A depth of joy, that whelms,
Like the lone, starry night,
Our intellectual being, in a maze,
Where fancy, pleas'd, bewilder'd, startled, plays—
The spirit hath a fullness of delight—
A depth of joy, that whelms,
Like the lone, starry night,
Our intellectual being, in a maze,
Where fancy, pleas'd, bewilder'd, startled, plays—
Now floundering in gloom,
Now reveling in glory, as a ray
The darkness doth illume:
Then bursts the perfect day,
And the clear'd vision wanders wide and free
Through the starr'd realms of vast Infinity.
Now reveling in glory, as a ray
The darkness doth illume:
Then bursts the perfect day,
And the clear'd vision wanders wide and free
Through the starr'd realms of vast Infinity.
Morn on the hill-tops! Hark!
The low of kine swells up from yon green vale,
With song of meadow-lark,
And merry note of quail;
And the “hip-halloo!” of the wild cow-boy,
Comes, soft and musical, and full of joy.
The low of kine swells up from yon green vale,
With song of meadow-lark,
And merry note of quail;
And the “hip-halloo!” of the wild cow-boy,
Comes, soft and musical, and full of joy.
The breeze is rising now:
The purple clouds sail gracefully along;
The spiral saplings bow,
And swell the choral song;
And from each tree-top, by the free wind stirr'd,
Floats the rich matin of some grateful bird.
The purple clouds sail gracefully along;
The spiral saplings bow,
And swell the choral song;
And from each tree-top, by the free wind stirr'd,
Floats the rich matin of some grateful bird.
234
Man—man alone! of all
To whom this visible glory hath been given,
Deemeth the privilege small
Thus to commune with Heaven:
There is no bank or railroad stock on high—
Stars are not gold—pence rain not from the sky!
To whom this visible glory hath been given,
Deemeth the privilege small
Thus to commune with Heaven:
There is no bank or railroad stock on high—
Stars are not gold—pence rain not from the sky!
| Miami Woods : a golden wedding and other poems | |