 | Harvest of Thoughts |  |
1
A BRIGHT REFLECTION.
Oft to my recollection,
Drifts in a bright reflection;
And it comes from a direction,
Where all is filled with cheer:
From wood-land dale and fallow,
From brooklets deep and shallow;
And the notes of featherd songsters
Come drifting to mine ear.
Drifts in a bright reflection;
And it comes from a direction,
Where all is filled with cheer:
From wood-land dale and fallow,
From brooklets deep and shallow;
And the notes of featherd songsters
Come drifting to mine ear.
The vernal beechen wild-wood,
The palace of my child-hood;
Neath spreading boughs of oak-wood,
Mong vines and leaves o'er head:
I view them o'er and over,
The meadow-fields of clover;
The hills of golden barley,
And sweet cherries ripe and red.
The palace of my child-hood;
Neath spreading boughs of oak-wood,
Mong vines and leaves o'er head:
I view them o'er and over,
The meadow-fields of clover;
The hills of golden barley,
And sweet cherries ripe and red.
I hear the wood-land ringing,
The wild-bird's noise and singing:
See the watchful squirrel clinging,
To some large old ancient tree:
And a host of barefoot boys,
Laden down with childish joys;
Wading brooklets, with their trousers 'bove the knee.
The wild-bird's noise and singing:
See the watchful squirrel clinging,
To some large old ancient tree:
And a host of barefoot boys,
Laden down with childish joys;
Wading brooklets, with their trousers 'bove the knee.
2
The cattle on the hill,
Of sweet grass have had their fill;
And beneath the shade stand still,
While others lie:
Their burden and their strife,
Is sustenance through life;
Their plague and only torment is the fly.
Of sweet grass have had their fill;
And beneath the shade stand still,
While others lie:
Their burden and their strife,
Is sustenance through life;
Their plague and only torment is the fly.
The little lambs at play,
On the hillside far away;
And for fear they'll go astray,
There mothers kind,
Follow close and blate aloud,
To the little pranking crowd;
And a thought of Christ our shepherd, comes to mind.
On the hillside far away;
And for fear they'll go astray,
There mothers kind,
Follow close and blate aloud,
To the little pranking crowd;
And a thought of Christ our shepherd, comes to mind.
Such joys as we had then,
Will return, I know not when;
But the scenes will never blend,
From manhood's sight:
The while with toil and grief,
We bear life' burden sheaf,
Oft sweet scenes of happy child-hood flash a light.
Will return, I know not when;
But the scenes will never blend,
From manhood's sight:
The while with toil and grief,
We bear life' burden sheaf,
Oft sweet scenes of happy child-hood flash a light.
3
But a brighter scene than this,
Is that sweet land of the Bliss;
And that scene I would not miss,
For wealth or lore;
'Tis the scene o'er Jordan's strand,
It is called Sweet Beaulah Land,
And my soul yearns for its flight,
To that bright shore.
Is that sweet land of the Bliss;
And that scene I would not miss,
For wealth or lore;
'Tis the scene o'er Jordan's strand,
It is called Sweet Beaulah Land,
And my soul yearns for its flight,
To that bright shore.
| Harvest of Thoughts | |