 | Lays and ballads |  |
62
THE WAY-SIDE.
Who starteth abroad in the shadowy morn,
With pack and with staff for some far-away bourne,
While lieth before him the road and the day,
He loveth, I ween, the bright things by the way:
They cheer him, and lighten the wearisome load
When the sultry white noon cometh down on the road;
When the blacksnake is lying asleep in the sun,
And the small heated streams o'er their thirsty beds run;
While, mocking the sense, where no breeze is at play,
Like fountains of water the white aspens quiver,
And the willow scarce moves with its slumberous sway,
Like the long idle grass in the low lazy river.
For him the bright mullein,
O'er its broad leaves so woollen,
Biddeth its golden flowers to glow,
Where the buttercup shines,
And the strawberry vines
Creep over the bank where the dandelions grow.
With pack and with staff for some far-away bourne,
While lieth before him the road and the day,
He loveth, I ween, the bright things by the way:
They cheer him, and lighten the wearisome load
When the sultry white noon cometh down on the road;
When the blacksnake is lying asleep in the sun,
And the small heated streams o'er their thirsty beds run;
While, mocking the sense, where no breeze is at play,
Like fountains of water the white aspens quiver,
And the willow scarce moves with its slumberous sway,
Like the long idle grass in the low lazy river.
For him the bright mullein,
O'er its broad leaves so woollen,
63
Where the buttercup shines,
And the strawberry vines
Creep over the bank where the dandelions grow.
The wealthy may fence-in their beautiful ground,
Where the large and the rare flaunting flowers abound;
The pilgrim who sits by the roadside alone,
Hath a garden as good and fenced out for his own!
An orchard of wild fruits, his brook and his spring,
Where the sweet birds from heaven all drop down to sing;—
There the oriole flits—and the butterflies throng,
And the wren giveth up its small tribute of song,
And the robin, from out the wild cherry, its strain,
While the small squirrel runs with its cheeks full of grain.
From morning till night, through the sultriest day,
Bright, bright are the things by the wearisome way.
For there the bright mullein
O'er its broad leaves so woollen,
Biddeth its golden flowers to glow,
Where the buttercup shines,
And the strawberry vines
Creep over the bank where the dandelions grow.
Where the large and the rare flaunting flowers abound;
The pilgrim who sits by the roadside alone,
Hath a garden as good and fenced out for his own!
An orchard of wild fruits, his brook and his spring,
Where the sweet birds from heaven all drop down to sing;—
There the oriole flits—and the butterflies throng,
And the wren giveth up its small tribute of song,
And the robin, from out the wild cherry, its strain,
While the small squirrel runs with its cheeks full of grain.
From morning till night, through the sultriest day,
Bright, bright are the things by the wearisome way.
For there the bright mullein
O'er its broad leaves so woollen,
Biddeth its golden flowers to glow,
Where the buttercup shines,
And the strawberry vines
Creep over the bank where the dandelions grow.
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