University of Virginia Library

LINES TO A VALLEY.

Sweet Ide! thy green remembering
Is like the foot-print of young Spring
Over my heart, and I shall be
Secure of youth in feeling thee.
Thy valley, Ide! can never die
From the stored pictures of mine eye;
But in the waste of faded years
Shine beautiful as Morning's tears
On heath forlorn. The sloping meadow,
That leads us to the mellow'd shadow
Of wreathed trees, and bars away
The view of city old and gray,
And laps our hearts in balmy ease
Among the quiet cottages,
Is a calm pillow for the Sun
To spread his golden hair upon.
Mine autumn evening! sweet wert thou,
When welcom'd on that meadow's brow;
But sweeter when, amid the trees,
I listen'd to the singing bees
Down in the vale—and saw the skies
All blazon'd with the streams, that rise
Purple and golden in the west,
And float o'er Heaven's eternal breast;
Ethereal rivers, that do stain
With gorgeous waves the silver plain
Of the sweet world above us,—where
By night the starry islands are.
Was I not happy in the sight
Of that rich wide world o'er me,—light
Of heart, to feel the mighty earth
A sleeping thing,—calm as the birth
Of cowslips on enchanted eves,
When fairies open their dim leaves;—
To dream amid the inwoven trees,
Which are autumnal palaces,
Pillar'd and golden roof'd;—to walk
To the music of enraptured talk,
Falling from ever happy lips,
Whose lustre knoweth no eclipse;—
To feel the hymning of the breeze,
And listen to the mellow bees;—
To con with deep romantic pleasure
At airy sounds, some echoing measure,
And call up picturing poesy
To mock the beauty of the sky!
Was I not happy as a tree
In blossoming orchard, to be free
From heavy strangers, and the press
Of dull acquaintance, that distress
The bosom's patience,—and to see
Those—those I loved the best, with me!
I had an hour of that calm time
We read of in the forest rhyme
Of pastoral poet. The sweet air
Play'd round me, like Apollo's hair,
Rich, soft, and full of melody.
The bird sang late upon the tree
Its lonely song. The hush of night
Was born before its time: the light
Seem'd left unusually alone
In the wide heavens,—and the tone
Of our own voices was endued
With the mellowness of solitude.
I say but feebly what I feel
Of thee, sweet Ide! but I will steal
Again to thee at autumn-tide,
With one who loves thee at my side,—
And give deep honoring thoughts to thee
Of joyous, young serenity.