Our fancy, while we gaze, takes wings
And flits around earth's brighter things,
Then whispers in our list'ning ears,
"This earth is not all sighs and tears."
This cloud is like the robin's song,
Whose notes were hushed all winter long,
But comes to usher in the hours,
Whose genial warmth revives the flowers.
Or like the south wind's gentle voice,
Bidding all nature's works rejoice,
Teaching the little birds, to sing
A serenade to blooming spring.
Like budding flowers where thorns once grew,
And beauty bursting into view
Where all was dark, and drear, and wild,
Nor pleasures in prospective smiled.
'Tis like the smile that beams through tears,
When hope usurps the place of fears;
Like health, new sparkling in the eye
Of him, whom friends gave up to die.
Faint emblem of the glory shed
Around the dying christian's bed,
That prelude to the dazzling light
Which bursts on his enraptured sight,
When the freed spirit soars above,
And faith is swallowed up in love.
LEWISTON,
AS IT WAS, AND AS IT IS.
It was a wild, sequestered spot,
With here and there a humble cot;
Yet, nature's richest robes were thrown
Around those hills and valleys lone.
'Twas quiet, fair, and lovely, then,
Though beasts of prey and savage men
Roamed o'er those hills of graceful form,
Whose trees for ages braved the storm,
Yet, humbly stooping to behold
The broad majestic stream, that rolled
Through smiling mead and woody plain,
Fast speeding onward to the main,
Or, dashing from its rocky height,
Proclaims the great Creator's might,
Its deep toned music, strangely meet
To mingle with the anthem sweet,
That floated on each whisp'ring breeze,
Which came, soft stealing through the trees
That grew upon the winding shore,
In giant ranks, in days of yore.
When genial spring her magic spell,
Cast 'round each lovely woodland dell,
And woke to life the warbling throng,
While streamlets gaily danced along;
If such a spot on earth be found,
Those hills and vallies all around
Smiled, like the paradise of God,
When first by sinless beings trod.
Thus, rude, romantic, grand, sublime,
Was Lewiston, in olden time.
But Art and Genius, passing by,
Saw this fair spot neglected lie,
Then said, in deep emotion's tone,
"Shall these bright waves go dancing on,
Just like a thoughtless child at play,
Who throws his strength and skill away?"
Anon, they raised the useful mills,
The sparkling waters moved the wheels,
And industry, with cheerful air,
Was pleased to take her station there.
The proud old forest bowed, his head,
With sullen frowns the savage fled,
The timid beaver left the shore,
The deer and moose were seen no more.
Rich cultivated fields appeared.
Neat tasteful dwellings soon were reared,
In graceful ranks we see them stand,
With spacious streets on either hand.
Where once the Indian's wigwam stood,
The factory, with its busy crowd,
Dispenses blessings far and near,
While rich and poor its products share.
Here merchandise, with eagle eyes,
His own and others' wants supplies;
And science, like a swelling tide,
Diffuses knowledge far and wide.
The sweetly pealing sabbath bells,
Now echo round those hills and dells,
And call the villagers to meet
Where they enjoy communion sweet,
With Him who answers ev'ry prayer
That humble faith can utter there.
There's music in those sabbath bells,
This pleasing truth methinks they tell,
That God is held in rev'rence there,
And worshiped in His house of prayer.
In the fair background now are seen
Sweet hills and dales, all robed in green,
With here and there a pleasant grove
Where every class delights to rove;
There, age sits down beneath the shade,
Where he has oft in childhood strayed;
There, youths and maidens often walk,
To spend an hour in friendly talk;
There, little children, too, are seen,
Like lambs they gambol o'er the green;
They wander there in summer hours
In quest of birds' nests, fruit, and flowers.
The scholar loves this solitude,
Where tumult never dares intrude;
And here the stranger likes to roam,
And think of loved ones left at home.
The saint, at twilight's pensive hour,
Here seeks the sweet secluded bower;
While whisp'ring zephyrs linger near,
And waft to heaven the humble prayer.
And all who study nature's book,
On this fair page delight to look;
They'll range those hills and vallies o'er,
And trace the river's winding shore.
Nor can they e'er forget to look
Upon the little murm'ring brook,
Which, like a silver belt, winds round
The hill, with oak and elm trees crowned.
But that majestic waterfall,
In grandeur still surpasses all.
Should Art and Genius there assemble,
With solemn awe they'd stand and tremble;
Than all their works, they'd own this greater,
And bow before the great Creator.
TWILIGHT MUSINGS.
BY AMELIA.
I wandered out one summer night,
'Twas when my years were few,
The wind was singing in the light,
And I was singing too.
One fleecy cloud upon the air,
Was all that met my eyes,
It floated like an angel there,
Between me and the skies.
I clapped my hands and warbled wild,
As here and there I flew,
For I was but a careless child,
And did as children do.
I heard the laughing wind behind,
'Twas playing with my hair;
The breezy fingers of the wind,
How cool and moist they were.
The twilight hours came stealing by,
And still I wandered free;
Ten thousand stars were in the sky,
Ten thousand on the sea.
For ev'ry wave with dimpled face,
That leaped upon the air,
Had caught a star in its embrace,
And held it trembling there.
But wherefore weave such strains as these,
And sing them day by day,
When every bird upon the breeze
Can sing a sweeter lay.
I'd give the world for their sweet art.
The simple, the divine;
I'd give the world to melt one heart,
As they have melted mine.
TO AMELIA.
And wouldst thou, sweet minstrel, if earth should unfold
To thee all her treasures of silver and gold,
Resign all thy riches, thy wealth, fame and power,
To sing like the birds in the green woodland bower?
Like thee, dear Amelia, I love the wild bird,
Their soft melting strains, at grey twilight, I've heard;
The whippowils, then, on the cool zephyr's wing,
Their clear pensive notes in rich harmony fling.
I listen each morning with heartfelt delight,
While birds bid adieu to the shadows of night.
And greet in sweet anthems the bright king of day,
As they through the forest are soaring away.
Yet thy flowing numbers, when breathing around,
Awaken such echoes as these never found;
A chord in my bosom, thy sonnet has stirred,
Which never was touched by the notes of a bird.
But meekness in woman to me is so dear,
I love thee the more when such language I hear;
True greatness and modesty, when they combine,
Like stars of the firmament sparkle and shine.
The birds of the forest thy spirits can cheer,
Their songs fill with music thy sensitive ear,
But has that fair dove in thy heart found a nest,
Whose singing can make thee eternally blest?
MOONLIGHT MUSINGS.
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A ROW OF FINE TREES NEAR MY DWELLING.
These youthful pines, a verdant row,
Cast their dark shadows on the snow;
Just like a picture, or a dream,
Or tale of fairy lands, they seem.
I hear a soft melodious lay,
The winds are with their tops at play;
While moonbeams through their branches stealing,
Wake up a wild romantic feeling.
The forest birds in spring will come,
'Neath these green boughs to make their home,
To cheer us with their sweet wild song,
To build their nests and rear their young.
Child of the wood, in infancy,
I learned to love the forest tree;
I'm still the same romantic creature,
Admiring all the works of nature.
The rocks, the fields, the groves and flowers,
Are fraught with some mysterious powers,
That bind me with a pleasing spell,
Which naught can break while here I dwell.
The wild bird's note, the woodland dell,
Have charms beyond my power to tell;
While winds are through the forest roaring,
My spirit with the sound seems soaring.
The rosy morn, the sunset sky,
The glitt'ring retinue on high,
The sun's broad blaze, the moon's mild beams,
Reflected from the lakes and streams,
The lightning's flash, the thunder's roar,