Pure as their parent springs! how bright
The silvery waters stretch away,
Reposing in the pleasant light
Of June's most lovely day.
Curving around the eastern side,
Rich meadows slope their banks, to meet
With fringe of grass and fern, the tide
Which sparkles at their feet.
Here busy life attests that toil,
With its quick talisman, has made
Fields green and waving, from a soil
Of rude and savage shade.
While opposite the forests lie
In giant shadow, black and deep,
Filling with leaves the circling sky,
And frowning in their sleep.
Amid this scene of light and gloom,
Nature with art links hand in hand,
Thick woods beside soft rural bloom,
As by a seer's command.
Here waves the grain, here curls the smoke,
The orchard bends; there, wilds, as dark
As when the hermit waters woke
Beneath the Indian's bark.
Oft will the panther's sharp, shrill shriek
With the herd's quiet lowings swell,
The wolf's fierce howl terrific break
Upon the sheepfold's bell.
The ploughman sees the wind-winged deer
Dart from his covert to the wave,
And fearless in its mirror clear
His branching antlers lave.
Here, the green headlands seem to meet
So near, a fairy bridge might cross;
There, spreads the broad and limpid sheet
In smooth, unruffled gloss.
Arched by the thicket's screening leaves,
A lilied harbour lurks below,
Where on the sand each ripple weaves
Its melting wreath of snow.
Hark! like an organ's tone, the woods
To the light wind in murmurs wake,
The voice of the vast solitudes
Is speaking to the lake.
The fanning air-breath sweeps across
On its broad path of sparkles now.
Bends down the violet to the moss,
Then melts upon my brow.
SONG OF SPRING-TIME.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Where dost thou loiter, Spring,
While it behoveth
Thee to cease wandering
Where'er thou roveth,
And to my lady bring
The flowers she loveth.
Come with thy melting skies
Like her cheek blushing,
Come with thy dewy eyes
Where founts are gushing;
Come where the wild bee hies
When dawn is flushing.
Lead her where by the brook
The first blossom keepeth,
Where, in the sheltered nook,
The callow bud sleepeth;
Or with a timid look
Through its leaves peepeth.
Lead her where on the spray,
Blithely carolling,
First birds their roundelay
For my lady sing--
But keep, where'er she stray
True-love blossoming.