 | Poems (1857) |  |
283
THE RIVER.
Thou art the Poet of the Woods, fair River,
A lover of the beautiful!—and still
Wand'rest by wildest scenes, while night-stars quiver,
The only voice that haunts the desert hill:—
Thou art the Poet of the Woods, whose lay
Charms the dim forest on thy sylvan way.
A lover of the beautiful!—and still
Wand'rest by wildest scenes, while night-stars quiver,
The only voice that haunts the desert hill:—
Thou art the Poet of the Woods, whose lay
Charms the dim forest on thy sylvan way.
Thou art the Artist of the Vale, bright River,
That paint'st the glowing hues of earth and sky
On thine own pure and placid breast for ever;
Two worlds of beauty on thy waters lie!—
Thou'rt Nature's boldest Painter—broad and free—
And human genius ne'er surpasseth thee!
That paint'st the glowing hues of earth and sky
On thine own pure and placid breast for ever;
Two worlds of beauty on thy waters lie!—
Thou'rt Nature's boldest Painter—broad and free—
And human genius ne'er surpasseth thee!
Thou art the Minstrel of the Fields, sweet River,
Whose music lingers like an angel's tongue—
A voice that sings the glory of the Giver!
Creation's first, sublimest, birth of song!
Still let my soul thy liquid music hear,
Oh, sweet Musician!—voice for ever dear!
Whose music lingers like an angel's tongue—
A voice that sings the glory of the Giver!
Creation's first, sublimest, birth of song!
Still let my soul thy liquid music hear,
Oh, sweet Musician!—voice for ever dear!
| Poems (1857) | |