Out in the Woods.
Glad haunts of the summer!—the dim forest aisles,
Where Sylva receives us with welcoming smiles—
Gives couch of soft mosses, embowered with vines,
And smoothes from the forehead, care’s deep written lines.
Refreshing, she brings, for the world-weary brain
And soothes, with her silence, its fever and pain!—
Bids Somnus pour sweets from which restfulness flows,
And, hushing her realm into holiest calm,
She lulls the sick soul into gentle repose,
While winds, with the leafage, are chanting a psalm
That charms with its rythm. Rev’ry’s doorways unclose—
We slip to forgetfulness—sleep that is balm.
* * * * *
The musical tinkle of the murmuring stream
Gave warp, for the web, of a beautiful dream,
And woof for the weaving, the slumber-god chose
From fragrance of violets, and queenly wild-rose.
The sunshine that sifted thro’ the crowns of the trees,
Made threadings of gold with the shadows of these!
The breeze, touching lightly, with cool finger tips
Was the kiss of an angel on the tired spirit’s lips.
O, the eider-down couches of slumberous ease,
And the tapestried halls that the millionaires please,
Can never, such rest, on the weary bestow,
As we find in this palace, where the luxuries grow.
Majestical forest!—Asylum of Rest,
Where the crowd-jostled soul is ineffably blest—
Where primeval old trees, in their grandeur and might,
Guard Solitude’s shrine, from the vandal-world’s sight;
Where spice-bearing shrubs, and the sweet-scented ferns
Float odors as rich as when frankincense burns,
And the praise-breathing song of the thrush, from the boughs,
Wakes worship unknown thro’ the low-muttered vows.
“First temples of God!”—and still nearest His throne,
Where the spirit may drink, at the fountain, alone,
Receiving His blessing through the still, small voice,
While Nature’s true Acolytes whisper—rejoice.