Forest leaves :: :: University of Virginia Library

Born of the sunlight, and the dew,
That met amongst the flowers,
That on the river margin grew,
Beneath the willow bowers;
Her earliest pillow was a wreath
Of violets newly blown,
And the meek incense of their breath
At once became her own.

Her cradle-hymn the river sung,
In that same liquid tone
With which it gave, when earth was young,
Praise to the Living One.
The breeze that lay upon its breast,
Responded with a sigh;—
And there the ring dove built her nest
And sung her lulaby.

The only nurse she ever knew
Was Nature, free, and wild,—

Such was her birth, and so she grew
A moody, wayward child,
Who lov'd to climb the rocky steep,
To wade the mountain stream,
To lie beside the sounding deep,
And weave the magic dream.

She lov'd the path with shadows dim,
Beneath the dark leav'd trees,
Where Nature's feather poets sing
Their sweetest melodies;
To dance amongst the pensile stems
Where blossoms bright and sweet,
Threw diamonds from their diadems
Upon her fairy feet.

She lov'd to watch the day star float
Upon the ærial sea,
Till morning sunk his pearly boat
In floods of radiancy.
To see the angel of the storm
Upon his wind-wing'd car,
With dark clouds wrap'd around his form,
Come shouting from afar.

And pouring treasures rich and free,
The pure refreshing rain,
Till every weed and forest tree
Could boast its diamond chain.

Then rising, with the hymn of praise,
That swell'd from hill and dale,
Display the rainbow, sign of peace,
Upon its misty veil.

She lov'd the waves' deep utterings—
And gaz'd with frenzied eye,
When night shook lightning from his wings,
And winds went sobbing by.
Full oft I chid the wayward child
Her wandering to restrain;
And sought her airy limbs to bind
With prudence's wordly chain.

I bade her stay within my cot,
And ply the housewife's art;—
She heard me, but she heeded not,
Oh who can bind the heart?
I told her she had none to guide
Her inexperienced feet
To where, through Tempe's valley, glide
Castalia's waters sweet.

No son of fame, to take her hand
And lead her blushing forth,
Proclaiming to the laurel'd band
A youthful sister's worth;
That there were none to help her climb
The steep and toilsome way,
To where, above the mists of time,
Shines Genius' living ray.

Where wreath'd with never fading flowers,
The Harp immortal lies,
Filling the souls that reach those bowers
With heavenly melodies.
I warn'd her of the cruel foes
That throng that rugg'd path,
Where many a thorn of misery grows,
And tempests wreak their wrath.

I told her of the serpents dread,
With malice pointed fangs,
Of yellow blossom'd weeds that shed
Derision's maddening pangs.
And of the broken, mouldering lyres
Thrown carelessly aside,
Telling the winds, with shivering wires,
How noble spirits died.

I said—her sandals were not meet
Such journey to essay,
(There should be gold beneath the feet
That tempt Fame's toilsome way,)
But while I spoke, her burning eye
Was flashing in the light
That shone upon that mountain high,
Insufferably bright.

While streaming from the Eternal Lyre,
Like distant echoes came
A strain that wrap'd her soul in fire,
And thrill'd her trembling frame.

She sprang away—that wayward child,
The harp! the harp! she cried;
And still she climbs, and warbles wild,
Along the mountain side.