 | Songs of field and flood |  |
28
AN INDIAN SUMMER NOON ON RHODE ISLAND.
Yes, Isle of Peace! I know thee now,—Such grace and glory on thy brow;
Such lustre in thy glowing eye,
Born of the broad blue sea and sky;
Such health and beauty on thy cheek,
And grace of form no tongue can speak!
In richest robes of russet hue,
Veiled in thin mists of softest blue,
With lingering summer-green, and gold
Of sunshine flung on every fold,—
Amidst the Indian-summer haze
Of these benign autumnal days,
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A noble, maiden Indian Queen!
The very soul of beauty seems
To fill thy face with waking dreams.
The smile of Heaven,—how soft and still
It rests on field and wood and hill!
Such noontide stillness far and near,
The silence whispers to my ear.
I seem to see the gentle ghosts
Of forms that long since roamed these coasts;
The plash of paddles sounds once more,
That died, years gone, along yon shore.
'Tis now the season when the wild
Yet tender heart of Nature's child
In yon far Western halo saw,
With yearning love and holy awe,
The light of that unfading shore,
Where dwell the dead who die no more.
Ah! Heaven is nearer now, meseems,
Than 'twas to them in autumn dreams!
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Look down on me from yon blue sky?
In yon rich hues I trace his hand,—
His step is on this lovely land:
Where'er I rest, where'er I roam,
'Tis heaven on earth,—my Father's home!
| Songs of field and flood | |