 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
221
ROMANCE.
You can trace it in all in word and look,
Through her lightest—her loftiest deed it plays,
As you trace by the gleam of a graceful brook,
Through valley and forest its winding ways.
Through her lightest—her loftiest deed it plays,
As you trace by the gleam of a graceful brook,
Through valley and forest its winding ways.
A vein of Romance—like a vein of gold
And its source, is a mine of wealth untold,
The wealth of rich feelings—the deep—the pure,
With strength to meet sorrow, and faith to endure.
It smiles through trifles—a fairy gleam,
Like a sparkle 'mid flowers of the playful stream,
And often through higher and graver things,
It breaks with its beauty and fresh delight,
As the ray of the rivulet's rippling rings,
Comes up in the woods on the startled sight.
To such in the faintest cloud that floats,
In the simplest leaf of the garden bower,
In the least of the woodland warbler's notes,
Is a charmed language, a spell of power.
And its source, is a mine of wealth untold,
The wealth of rich feelings—the deep—the pure,
With strength to meet sorrow, and faith to endure.
It smiles through trifles—a fairy gleam,
Like a sparkle 'mid flowers of the playful stream,
And often through higher and graver things,
It breaks with its beauty and fresh delight,
As the ray of the rivulet's rippling rings,
Comes up in the woods on the startled sight.
To such in the faintest cloud that floats,
In the simplest leaf of the garden bower,
In the least of the woodland warbler's notes,
Is a charmed language, a spell of power.
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The cloud?—oh! an angel waves, they say,
His wings in Heaven's resplendent air,
And floats away in the holy ray,
Shedding their delicate shadow there.
The bird is singing the stars beneath,
To Nature's harp with its viewless chords,
And the fair bouquet, or the graceful wreath,
Is a cluster, or garland, of fragrant words.
His wings in Heaven's resplendent air,
And floats away in the holy ray,
Shedding their delicate shadow there.
The bird is singing the stars beneath,
To Nature's harp with its viewless chords,
And the fair bouquet, or the graceful wreath,
Is a cluster, or garland, of fragrant words.
Such was the spirit that thrilled her hand,
When gaily bending her sweet work o'er;
She wreathed with the flowers of her native land,
The lowly steps of her cottage door.
But the prettiest far of her pets was one,
You'd fancy had fed on the beams of the sun;
It seemed to look up in my face the while,
So brightly, I thought that I saw it smile:
It was that with the petals of purple and gold,
Whose sweet appellations the poet has told.
When gaily bending her sweet work o'er;
She wreathed with the flowers of her native land,
The lowly steps of her cottage door.
But the prettiest far of her pets was one,
You'd fancy had fed on the beams of the sun;
It seemed to look up in my face the while,
So brightly, I thought that I saw it smile:
It was that with the petals of purple and gold,
Whose sweet appellations the poet has told.
I passed them, and stood by the open door,
But she stooped to gather and give me a flower;
Playfully murmuring, stay! if you please!
You pass not my threshold without ‘Heart's-ease!’
Oh! long may the blossom, whatever betide,
The tenderest breath of the summer-wind win,
And smile in its beauty thy threshold beside,
Bright symbol! sweet lady! of ‘Heart's-ease within!’
But she stooped to gather and give me a flower;
Playfully murmuring, stay! if you please!
You pass not my threshold without ‘Heart's-ease!’
223
The tenderest breath of the summer-wind win,
And smile in its beauty thy threshold beside,
Bright symbol! sweet lady! of ‘Heart's-ease within!’
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |