Two infants in their cradles lie,
Where lullabies of peace
In gentle strains of tender music die.
And carols never cease.
Two urchins o'er the meadow lands
Are bounding in their plays,
Where sweet enjoyment with angelic hands
Winds gladness o'er the days.
Two boys, where golden fancies bless,
Repose in sunny beams,
And muse away the hours of happiness
On couches made of dreams.
Two men upon a summer sea
Are toiling, brave and strong,
Where pleasures roll their elfin harmony
And labor ends in song.
Two gray-haired sages, silvered o'er,
In life meet once again,
To name the wondrous happiness they bore
Among their fellow-men.
Two graves forever hide the twain
Who found, in all their years,
No secret shadows, where unbroken pain
Held fountains full of tears.
Two lives have passed from human reach,
And few have heard of them,
But joy had not been better served if each
Had worn a diadem.
Ah, bosoms here are strangely blest
With perfect bliss that glows,
And he above all others lives the best,
Who has the fewest woes!
"AWAY, AWAY, FROM THE SULTRY WAYS."
Away, away, from the sultry ways
Where the pleasures fall and fade,
To the bannered corn and the meadowed bloom
And the forest's cooling shade!
Afar, afar, from the rooms of care
With the toils of life distressed,
To the grassy hills and the fragrant slopes
And the quiet vales of rest!
Away from the weary, dusty town,
Where the sorrows dim the days,
To the sleeping lake and the silent stream
And the wildwood's tangled ways!
To margins wide of the woodland pools,
Where the wild birds troll their songs,
Where the lilies laugh and the willows wave,
And the pleasures dance in throngs!
The dark-eyed nymphs and the fairy elves
In their robes of laughing smiles,
In the forests romp 'neath the leafy trees,
Through the narrow long-drawn aisles.
The bannered corn and the golden wheat
In the ties of bliss are bound;
The sweetest joys and highest hopes
On the shady farms are found.
The raptures reign in the holy scenes,
And the old grow young once more,
To roam the meadows and live again
In the happy years of yore.
Then haste, O, haste, to the country downs,
Where the valleys are sweet with joys,
And the soul grows young, and the heart is light,
And the bosom is like a boy's!