 | Morning Glories : |  |
THE STRICKEN DEER.
Where grew the tangled brush,
And where the grey moss hung,
In long festoons upon the sturdy oak,
Where sweetly sang the happy birds,
The verdant leaves among,
And where the meadow flower-strewn,
Its fragrance heavenward sent,
There grazed in blissful solitude
A herd in sweet content.
And where the grey moss hung,
In long festoons upon the sturdy oak,
Where sweetly sang the happy birds,
The verdant leaves among,
And where the meadow flower-strewn,
Its fragrance heavenward sent,
There grazed in blissful solitude
A herd in sweet content.
Where nature's emerald carpet spread
Unto the margin of the silvery brook,
Whose tranquil flow o'er shining stones,
Made music as its tortuous course it took,
And sought the heaving bosom of the deep
Blue sea, and in and out the timid
Dormouse crept. And from the topmost bough,
The cunning squirrel chased its happy mate,
The stately leader here his unsuspecting
Comrades led.
Unto the margin of the silvery brook,
Whose tranquil flow o'er shining stones,
Made music as its tortuous course it took,
And sought the heaving bosom of the deep
Blue sea, and in and out the timid
Dormouse crept. And from the topmost bough,
The cunning squirrel chased its happy mate,
The stately leader here his unsuspecting
Comrades led.
The gentle doe with graceful poised head,
Besported gay and fearless by his side,
Their nimble feet above the green turf sped,
They gamboled freely o'er the meadow wide,
But in the very zenith of their bliss,
A sound disturbs the calmness of the scene,
'Tis not the venomed serpent's warning hiss,
The huntsman's aim with crimson dies the green.
Besported gay and fearless by his side,
Their nimble feet above the green turf sped,
They gamboled freely o'er the meadow wide,
But in the very zenith of their bliss,
A sound disturbs the calmness of the scene,
'Tis not the venomed serpent's warning hiss,
The huntsman's aim with crimson dies the green.
95
And now the startled herd with head erect,
Do swiftly fly, as like a rushing wind,
Their footsteps rendered fleeter by their fear,
In eagerness to escape the danger near,
Have fled and left the wounded one behind,
Beneath the scorching sun's relentless ray,
With parched protruding tongue he wounded lay,
With gentle eyes upturned that mutely plead,
For succor, but the multitude had fled.
Do swiftly fly, as like a rushing wind,
Their footsteps rendered fleeter by their fear,
In eagerness to escape the danger near,
Have fled and left the wounded one behind,
Beneath the scorching sun's relentless ray,
With parched protruding tongue he wounded lay,
With gentle eyes upturned that mutely plead,
For succor, but the multitude had fled.
| Morning Glories : | |