 | The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems |  |
Who has not dream'd a world of bliss,
On a bright sunny noon like this,
Couch'd by his native brook's green maze,
With comrade of his boyish days?
Whilst all around them seem'd to be
Just as in joyous infancy.
There, still the green flag quivering plays,
The broad-sword of those fairy days;
There, still the water scorpions peep,
Then downward dart into the deep;
There, still the brook the alders greet,
Loosestrife, and foam-like meadow-sweet;
The water-flies there fleetly race
O'er the stream's smooth unruffled face;
There come, as then, the plunging cows,
Rustling amongst the hazel boughs;
And there, as then, they strive to save
Some struggling insect from the wave,
That long has strove and stretch'd in vain
Some floating leaf's safe ark to gain,
That, ever near, excites its toils,
But touch'd—and lo!—it still recoils,
As tempting hope our efforts foils.
On a bright sunny noon like this,
Couch'd by his native brook's green maze,
With comrade of his boyish days?
Whilst all around them seem'd to be
Just as in joyous infancy.
There, still the green flag quivering plays,
The broad-sword of those fairy days;
There, still the water scorpions peep,
Then downward dart into the deep;
There, still the brook the alders greet,
Loosestrife, and foam-like meadow-sweet;
The water-flies there fleetly race
O'er the stream's smooth unruffled face;
There come, as then, the plunging cows,
Rustling amongst the hazel boughs;
And there, as then, they strive to save
Some struggling insect from the wave,
129
Some floating leaf's safe ark to gain,
That, ever near, excites its toils,
But touch'd—and lo!—it still recoils,
As tempting hope our efforts foils.
| The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems | |