A boy is a wonderfully curious thing,Of all creation he deems himself King,Yet give him for pastime a top and a stringAnd he is instantly spinning;When fishes are ripe he tries them with hook,He thinks more of them than of a new book,And steals enough time to after them look,Not conscious that he is sinning.The great possibilities within his scopePrompts to exertion, inspires him with hope,Till with the world he is ready to copeFor the greatest laurels of honor;Glory and fame are attractive starsHe may seek in strife, under bloody Mars,Till Wisdom revolts at the ugly scarsAmbition has placed upon her.Oh, active, mercurial, wonderful boy,The world is a top and you spin it with joy,Regardless of all the wiles you employTo gain the pleasure of seeing;No tree is so tall, but you reach its top limb,No water so deep, but in it you swim,No ice is so smooth, but o'er it you skimLike a phantom, a wonderful being.
A boy is a wonderfully curious thing,Of all creation he deems himself King,Yet give him for pastime a top and a stringAnd he is instantly spinning;When fishes are ripe he tries them with hook,He thinks more of them than of a new book,And steals enough time to after them look,Not conscious that he is sinning.
The great possibilities within his scopePrompts to exertion, inspires him with hope,Till with the world he is ready to copeFor the greatest laurels of honor;Glory and fame are attractive starsHe may seek in strife, under bloody Mars,Till Wisdom revolts at the ugly scarsAmbition has placed upon her.
Oh, active, mercurial, wonderful boy,The world is a top and you spin it with joy,Regardless of all the wiles you employTo gain the pleasure of seeing;No tree is so tall, but you reach its top limb,No water so deep, but in it you swim,No ice is so smooth, but o'er it you skimLike a phantom, a wonderful being.
[The Maple was chosen by vote of the children in the schools of N. Y. State as the State Tree, and the Rose as the State Flower. Nature's Tribute, The Rose, and The Golden Rod were written at the request of the State Department of Public Instruction of N. Y. and sent to the schools of the State for Arbor Day use. Nature's Tribute was set to music.]
Tree of our state and emblem of neatness,Beauty and grace abide in thy form;Not in thy blood alone courses a sweetness,Thy ev'ry unfolding is suavity born.Down in the vale where cowslips are growing,Where violets breathe thro' sweet scented lips,Where brook o'er the bright pebbly bottom is flowing,And bee of the nectar of columbine sips.A monarch it stands of regnative power,In a graceful symmetrical pose;Whose arms weave a fairy, majestical bowerWhere wood-nymphs their beauty disclose.Its beautiful leaf of silvery sheen,And the grandeur it gives to the grove,Proclaim to th' world it of forest is queen,And most worthy our heart's purest love.Honor we maple as type of all neatness,Yielding protection, beauty, and grace;None of its rivals boast of such sweetness,None can in typical form fill its place.May th' state be as pure in motive and plan,As the maple from evil is free.May every son of the state, as a manTake his type from the pure maple tree.Then hale be the state, and hail to the tree!And each halo of glory shall lastTill from all tumult our state will be free,And no stain on her honor be cast.This tree be our care, our state's honored prize.May virtue and glory assemble,And bid every man in dignity riseTill the tree of our state he resemble.
Tree of our state and emblem of neatness,Beauty and grace abide in thy form;Not in thy blood alone courses a sweetness,Thy ev'ry unfolding is suavity born.
Down in the vale where cowslips are growing,Where violets breathe thro' sweet scented lips,Where brook o'er the bright pebbly bottom is flowing,And bee of the nectar of columbine sips.
A monarch it stands of regnative power,In a graceful symmetrical pose;Whose arms weave a fairy, majestical bowerWhere wood-nymphs their beauty disclose.
Its beautiful leaf of silvery sheen,And the grandeur it gives to the grove,Proclaim to th' world it of forest is queen,And most worthy our heart's purest love.
Honor we maple as type of all neatness,Yielding protection, beauty, and grace;None of its rivals boast of such sweetness,None can in typical form fill its place.
May th' state be as pure in motive and plan,As the maple from evil is free.May every son of the state, as a manTake his type from the pure maple tree.
Then hale be the state, and hail to the tree!And each halo of glory shall lastTill from all tumult our state will be free,And no stain on her honor be cast.
This tree be our care, our state's honored prize.May virtue and glory assemble,And bid every man in dignity riseTill the tree of our state he resemble.
With lavish hand our God hath spreadBeauty and fragrance o'er the land;His smile revives the seeming dead;Nature awakes at His command.He breathes upon the leafless tree;He whispers to the tiny flower.His touch awakes the slumbering bee,And each obeys th' Almighty power.The perfumed breeze of smiling May,The dancing stream on mountain side,The wild bird's trill of joyous layProclaim Thy goodness far and wide.Attune our hearts to sing Thy praise,Expand our souls to comprehendThy attributes and all Thy ways,And ever be our Guide and Friend.We plant to-day within the mould,The stock that needs Thy tender care;Send deep its roots, its buds unfoldIn answer to our faith and prayer.
With lavish hand our God hath spreadBeauty and fragrance o'er the land;His smile revives the seeming dead;Nature awakes at His command.
He breathes upon the leafless tree;He whispers to the tiny flower.His touch awakes the slumbering bee,And each obeys th' Almighty power.
The perfumed breeze of smiling May,The dancing stream on mountain side,The wild bird's trill of joyous layProclaim Thy goodness far and wide.
Attune our hearts to sing Thy praise,Expand our souls to comprehendThy attributes and all Thy ways,And ever be our Guide and Friend.
We plant to-day within the mould,The stock that needs Thy tender care;Send deep its roots, its buds unfoldIn answer to our faith and prayer.
When dewy morn of balmy JuneAwakes and blushes in the East,When song birds pipe their sweetest tuneAnd Nature spreads her grandest feast,Among the rare and fragrant plantsWhose petals most of heaven disclose,In foremost rank—far in advance—There stands the sprightly, smiling rose.Its home is on the wide, wide plains,In valleys where wild torrents foam,In solitudes where silence reigns,And by the cotter's humble home.It cheers alike the rich and poorOn Alpine heights, or by the sea,By castle wall or peasant's door—It justly claims ubiquity.Could blushing beauty born of heaven,Or world-wide worship win the prize,Could fragrance, fancy, fame, or evenThe rich rays of reflected skiesSoothe sorrows sharp and scorching stingAnd give the world complete repose,Then men should shout and children sing—"The flower of State must be the Rose!"
When dewy morn of balmy JuneAwakes and blushes in the East,When song birds pipe their sweetest tuneAnd Nature spreads her grandest feast,Among the rare and fragrant plantsWhose petals most of heaven disclose,In foremost rank—far in advance—There stands the sprightly, smiling rose.
Its home is on the wide, wide plains,In valleys where wild torrents foam,In solitudes where silence reigns,And by the cotter's humble home.It cheers alike the rich and poorOn Alpine heights, or by the sea,By castle wall or peasant's door—It justly claims ubiquity.
Could blushing beauty born of heaven,Or world-wide worship win the prize,Could fragrance, fancy, fame, or evenThe rich rays of reflected skiesSoothe sorrows sharp and scorching stingAnd give the world complete repose,Then men should shout and children sing—"The flower of State must be the Rose!"
When August sunset's yellow blazeStreams out o'er meadow, field and lawn,It seeks some shrine wherein its raysMay linger till returning dawn,And touching gently with its sheenThat graceful plumage of the sod,Its constellated gems of greenAre changed to gloriousGoldenrod.Its home is in the sterile soilDeserted by the rustic swainBecause it yields not for his toilThe recompense he would obtain.By wall and ledge, and rock, and mound,Where'er neglect and ruin reignIn greatest beauty there 'tis found,To cheer and clothe the earth again.Down in the soul there dwells a thoughtThat finds expression not in word,That counts display and promise naughtUnless a voice divine is heard,That speaks to cheer the desolate,That yields a balm distilled from God;Whose type should be the flower of State—The sun-lit, heaven-bornGoldenrod.
When August sunset's yellow blazeStreams out o'er meadow, field and lawn,It seeks some shrine wherein its raysMay linger till returning dawn,And touching gently with its sheenThat graceful plumage of the sod,Its constellated gems of greenAre changed to gloriousGoldenrod.
Its home is in the sterile soilDeserted by the rustic swainBecause it yields not for his toilThe recompense he would obtain.By wall and ledge, and rock, and mound,Where'er neglect and ruin reignIn greatest beauty there 'tis found,To cheer and clothe the earth again.
Down in the soul there dwells a thoughtThat finds expression not in word,That counts display and promise naughtUnless a voice divine is heard,That speaks to cheer the desolate,That yields a balm distilled from God;Whose type should be the flower of State—The sun-lit, heaven-bornGoldenrod.
Buttercups and daisies,—Bright children of the lawn—To the fields are noddingIn the winds of June.Such beauty of the meadowsGives a charm so sweet, so strong,The robin's spirit bursts aloudIn animated song.Buttercups and daisiesBloom adown the narrow lane,Beside the brook in pasture,And over the wide plain;Tangles in the meadowWhere ten million flowers bloom,Draw bee and bird and squirrel,With their beauty and perfume.Buttercups and daisiesAglow in morning light,And pendant dew-drops sparkling—Bright diamonds of night—Send a matin greetingTo the rising god of day,As he warms them gentlyWith his golden ray.Buttercups and daisiesAre jewels to be wornBy all sons and daughtersOf Nature, truly born;They speak a perfect language,They lead to the divine,They cheer the weak and wearyThey strengthen and refine.Buttercups and daisiesMay softly o'er me bloom,When I am sweetly sleepingWithin my restful tomb,And when by mortal beingsI may forgotten be,The buttercups and daisiesShall be dear friends to me.
Buttercups and daisies,—Bright children of the lawn—To the fields are noddingIn the winds of June.Such beauty of the meadowsGives a charm so sweet, so strong,The robin's spirit bursts aloudIn animated song.
Buttercups and daisiesBloom adown the narrow lane,Beside the brook in pasture,And over the wide plain;Tangles in the meadowWhere ten million flowers bloom,Draw bee and bird and squirrel,With their beauty and perfume.
Buttercups and daisiesAglow in morning light,And pendant dew-drops sparkling—Bright diamonds of night—Send a matin greetingTo the rising god of day,As he warms them gentlyWith his golden ray.
Buttercups and daisiesAre jewels to be wornBy all sons and daughtersOf Nature, truly born;They speak a perfect language,They lead to the divine,They cheer the weak and wearyThey strengthen and refine.
Buttercups and daisiesMay softly o'er me bloom,When I am sweetly sleepingWithin my restful tomb,And when by mortal beingsI may forgotten be,The buttercups and daisiesShall be dear friends to me.
Modest, meek anemone,Loved wind-flower of the spring,You fill our hearts with gladness,For with your smile you bringThe vitalizing sunshine,The fruitful April shower,The pipe of feathered songster,And bud of sylvan bower.
Modest, meek anemone,Loved wind-flower of the spring,You fill our hearts with gladness,For with your smile you bringThe vitalizing sunshine,The fruitful April shower,The pipe of feathered songster,And bud of sylvan bower.
I remember well, in my boyhood's romp,The beautiful flower that grew near the swamp,With its spiral screwOf cerulean hue,While on the marge of its petals grewA fringe, such as art never weaves.I plucked it with zeal, for my heart was aglow,Its color and form, my mother to show,And gladden her eyesWith the exquisite prizeI had found when autumnal zephyr sighs'Mong the faded flowers and leaves.Fair emblem of maiden adorned as a bride,The tintings of heaven within you abide;You smilingly standIn bridal robe grand,For a lover who offers an ardent hand,And a heart that never deceives.When others have left us, we cherish the oneWho remains firm and faithful till vict'ry's won;Though cold be the storm,The heart is e'er warmFor the tried and true, who weave such a charmRound the heart of him who receives.
I remember well, in my boyhood's romp,The beautiful flower that grew near the swamp,With its spiral screwOf cerulean hue,While on the marge of its petals grewA fringe, such as art never weaves.
I plucked it with zeal, for my heart was aglow,Its color and form, my mother to show,And gladden her eyesWith the exquisite prizeI had found when autumnal zephyr sighs'Mong the faded flowers and leaves.
Fair emblem of maiden adorned as a bride,The tintings of heaven within you abide;You smilingly standIn bridal robe grand,For a lover who offers an ardent hand,And a heart that never deceives.
When others have left us, we cherish the oneWho remains firm and faithful till vict'ry's won;Though cold be the storm,The heart is e'er warmFor the tried and true, who weave such a charmRound the heart of him who receives.
Meadows are dotted, far and wide,With velvet stars that bringA golden off'ring of delight,—Flower-goslings of the spring.Then gray-haired pappus, downy, soft,Follows with pistils loose,And the gosling of the early springBecomes a white-fledged goose.Its feathers float on ev'ry breezeThat fans the verdant mead,And children count the hours of dayBy breaths that waft the seed.Soft, silent Time that comes apaceO'er human flowers that bloom,You quickly change youth to old age,And lead life toward the tomb.Bright turf-born gosling of the field,Teach us to smile, and giveA perfume from a fragrant soul,That on and on shall live.
Meadows are dotted, far and wide,With velvet stars that bringA golden off'ring of delight,—Flower-goslings of the spring.
Then gray-haired pappus, downy, soft,Follows with pistils loose,And the gosling of the early springBecomes a white-fledged goose.
Its feathers float on ev'ry breezeThat fans the verdant mead,And children count the hours of dayBy breaths that waft the seed.
Soft, silent Time that comes apaceO'er human flowers that bloom,You quickly change youth to old age,And lead life toward the tomb.
Bright turf-born gosling of the field,Teach us to smile, and giveA perfume from a fragrant soul,That on and on shall live.
I sometimes think I love the roseMore than all other flowers,Because its fragrance falls on meIn copious, dainty showers;And blushing in its modesty,I press it to my heart,As the idol of my dallianceThat should no more depart.But when I see the lily fair—The meadow's beauteous queen—Surrounded by her myriad friendsAll dressed in Nature's green,My heart goes out in ecstasy,And naught on earth to meSeems fairer type of loveliness,Than this daughter of th' lea.When bright snow-flake-petaled daisy,Whose heart of yellow gold,Is richer vein of pure delightThan miner-kings may hold,Sends out her invitation warm,To search in her domainFor berries like a bleeding heart,I cannot well decline.And then the graceful goldenrodWith flaunting, sun-lit plume,Whose lateness lends a special joyAnd sweetness to its bloom,Invites me with its wind-blown nod,To be its devotee,With honesty I must confessIt has a charm for me.There's a heaven-born flower—the aster,That drinks nocturnal dewsFrom late autumn's chilly fountains,And steals the sunset hues;It smiles from wayside tanglesAnd coyly casts its eyes,Yet holds me by its modestyA voluntary prize.I know not which I love the most,—I know I love them all,—For God hath given each its grace,And each its special call;Each has a mission to perform,A purpose and an end,And sweet is the companionshipOf each bright flower-friend.
I sometimes think I love the roseMore than all other flowers,Because its fragrance falls on meIn copious, dainty showers;And blushing in its modesty,I press it to my heart,As the idol of my dallianceThat should no more depart.
But when I see the lily fair—The meadow's beauteous queen—Surrounded by her myriad friendsAll dressed in Nature's green,My heart goes out in ecstasy,And naught on earth to meSeems fairer type of loveliness,Than this daughter of th' lea.
When bright snow-flake-petaled daisy,Whose heart of yellow gold,Is richer vein of pure delightThan miner-kings may hold,Sends out her invitation warm,To search in her domainFor berries like a bleeding heart,I cannot well decline.
And then the graceful goldenrodWith flaunting, sun-lit plume,Whose lateness lends a special joyAnd sweetness to its bloom,Invites me with its wind-blown nod,To be its devotee,With honesty I must confessIt has a charm for me.
There's a heaven-born flower—the aster,That drinks nocturnal dewsFrom late autumn's chilly fountains,And steals the sunset hues;It smiles from wayside tanglesAnd coyly casts its eyes,Yet holds me by its modestyA voluntary prize.
I know not which I love the most,—I know I love them all,—For God hath given each its grace,And each its special call;Each has a mission to perform,A purpose and an end,And sweet is the companionshipOf each bright flower-friend.
Under the brown leaves meekly abiding,The gem of the spring-flowers nestles away,In copse near th' wood, where covertly hiding,It catches the glow of Aurora's first ray.Where moss and leaf are strewn in profusion—A bed whereon gods might gladly repose—Apart from the world, in rural seclusionThe pride of the moorland—arbutus grows.In mossy fields, 'mong refuse of bushes,With rose-tinted lips, like herald of morn,With but a leaf to conceal secret blushes,Earth's first vernal offspring is sweetly born.Modest, retiring, and beautiful sprite,Emblem of graces a maiden should wear,Great is the pleasure, supreme the delightOf searching for joys such coyness doth bear.Child of the woodland in beauty abiding,Whose breath scents the air of early spring morns,Fairies of magical powers are residingIn nooks and valleys your presence adorns.Oft in the springtime I wander awayTo dwell for a time in your blest retreat,Counting such pleasure far sweeter to meThan bustle of city or throng of the street.
Under the brown leaves meekly abiding,The gem of the spring-flowers nestles away,In copse near th' wood, where covertly hiding,It catches the glow of Aurora's first ray.
Where moss and leaf are strewn in profusion—A bed whereon gods might gladly repose—Apart from the world, in rural seclusionThe pride of the moorland—arbutus grows.
In mossy fields, 'mong refuse of bushes,With rose-tinted lips, like herald of morn,With but a leaf to conceal secret blushes,Earth's first vernal offspring is sweetly born.
Modest, retiring, and beautiful sprite,Emblem of graces a maiden should wear,Great is the pleasure, supreme the delightOf searching for joys such coyness doth bear.
Child of the woodland in beauty abiding,Whose breath scents the air of early spring morns,Fairies of magical powers are residingIn nooks and valleys your presence adorns.
Oft in the springtime I wander awayTo dwell for a time in your blest retreat,Counting such pleasure far sweeter to meThan bustle of city or throng of the street.
[On being requested to give some Morning Glory seeds.]
The sunshine seems much brighter,And the heart is ever lighter,When the rays of sweet AuroraGild the radiant morning gloryWith a splendor, such as heavenTo few favorites has givenAmong the beautiful rare flowers.So plant these seeds with care,In a place well-chosen, whereThe first rays of the morningMay kiss their bright adorning,And teach your heart to seeThe beauties there may beIn the early morning hours.
The sunshine seems much brighter,And the heart is ever lighter,When the rays of sweet AuroraGild the radiant morning gloryWith a splendor, such as heavenTo few favorites has givenAmong the beautiful rare flowers.So plant these seeds with care,In a place well-chosen, whereThe first rays of the morningMay kiss their bright adorning,And teach your heart to seeThe beauties there may beIn the early morning hours.
When pollen-dust from fields of ryeFloats out on the dews of even,And stars of June bedeck the skyOf mild and cloudless heaven,'Tis ecstasy to linger nearThe odor-laden quivers,Whose lance-like arrows then appearTo be our pleasure-givers.When Luna bright is wreathed in smiles,And breathes upon the flowers,A billowy greenness oft beguilesOur minds by magic powers;For like the waves of ocean grandWhen tempest winds are high,With speed sweep by the waves on land,In the fields of liquid rye.Fragrant fields of beautiful June,Whose billowy, graceful greenIs a mem'ry-gem that fades too soonFrom childhood's romantic scene,Sweet were my hours of ecstasyWhen by your side I was nigh;Joys I covet, long lost to meThat came from sweet fields of rye.
When pollen-dust from fields of ryeFloats out on the dews of even,And stars of June bedeck the skyOf mild and cloudless heaven,'Tis ecstasy to linger nearThe odor-laden quivers,Whose lance-like arrows then appearTo be our pleasure-givers.
When Luna bright is wreathed in smiles,And breathes upon the flowers,A billowy greenness oft beguilesOur minds by magic powers;For like the waves of ocean grandWhen tempest winds are high,With speed sweep by the waves on land,In the fields of liquid rye.
Fragrant fields of beautiful June,Whose billowy, graceful greenIs a mem'ry-gem that fades too soonFrom childhood's romantic scene,Sweet were my hours of ecstasyWhen by your side I was nigh;Joys I covet, long lost to meThat came from sweet fields of rye.
'Tis sweet to hold communionWith Nature true and wild,And feel the thrill of gladnessShe breathes upon her child,When close upon her bosomWe press the listening ear,And fancy that the minstrelsyOur raptured senses hear,Is sweeter than the chorusBy angel choirs sung,Or richer than vibrationsOf chords so deftly strung,That all their intonationsSeem blended in one strain,By touch of fairy fingersWhich enchant the sweet refrain.The beauties of the sunsetUpon the evening sky,When flecked with fleeting vapors,Detached and awry,Give colors that no artistSave God alone can showTo eyes that seek such blendings,And hearts that long to knowThe hidden things in NatureWhich ne'er can be revealedTo those who find not heavenIn mountain, sky, and field;For they who live the nearestTo Nature's self shall findJoy boundless as the ocean,As pure and unconfined.Deep in the leafy forestA thousand tones are heard,—The laughing, dancing brooklet,The song of bright-winged bird,The buzz of bee on flower,The leaf by breezes fanned,The hum of tiny insectWhose feeble notes commandThe modulated heart-beatTo know the great decree,That frees the mind from slaveryAnd sets the spirit free,Through knowledge of those hidden thingsWhich God only revealsTo him who loves all nature,And for a brother feels.The dearest and the sweetestOf all the charms on earth,Are those that link our naturesTo feelings that have birthWhen leaf and flower and fruitageSteal our being for an hour,And we are half unconsciousOf some mysterious power,That leads us close to heaven,And points to joys supreme,Where fields and flowers and happinessAre not an idle dream,But a true and soothing heritageWhose limit has no end,Where ev'ry rock and tree and shrubShall prove a trusted friend.If heaven is not shadowedUpon our spirit mind,Through all its gorgeous tintingsAnd colorings combined;If Nature has no languageTo charm the ear and eye,And brooks and birds and forestsAfford no minstrelsy;If waving grain and orchards,Freighted with fragrance rare,Draw not the spirit heavenwardAnd lift the soul in prayer;Then orisons are soullessThough voiced on bended knee,And small must be our knowledgeOf the Great Deity.
'Tis sweet to hold communionWith Nature true and wild,And feel the thrill of gladnessShe breathes upon her child,When close upon her bosomWe press the listening ear,And fancy that the minstrelsyOur raptured senses hear,Is sweeter than the chorusBy angel choirs sung,Or richer than vibrationsOf chords so deftly strung,That all their intonationsSeem blended in one strain,By touch of fairy fingersWhich enchant the sweet refrain.
The beauties of the sunsetUpon the evening sky,When flecked with fleeting vapors,Detached and awry,Give colors that no artistSave God alone can showTo eyes that seek such blendings,And hearts that long to knowThe hidden things in NatureWhich ne'er can be revealedTo those who find not heavenIn mountain, sky, and field;For they who live the nearestTo Nature's self shall findJoy boundless as the ocean,As pure and unconfined.
Deep in the leafy forestA thousand tones are heard,—The laughing, dancing brooklet,The song of bright-winged bird,The buzz of bee on flower,The leaf by breezes fanned,The hum of tiny insectWhose feeble notes commandThe modulated heart-beatTo know the great decree,That frees the mind from slaveryAnd sets the spirit free,Through knowledge of those hidden thingsWhich God only revealsTo him who loves all nature,And for a brother feels.
The dearest and the sweetestOf all the charms on earth,Are those that link our naturesTo feelings that have birthWhen leaf and flower and fruitageSteal our being for an hour,And we are half unconsciousOf some mysterious power,That leads us close to heaven,And points to joys supreme,Where fields and flowers and happinessAre not an idle dream,But a true and soothing heritageWhose limit has no end,Where ev'ry rock and tree and shrubShall prove a trusted friend.
If heaven is not shadowedUpon our spirit mind,Through all its gorgeous tintingsAnd colorings combined;If Nature has no languageTo charm the ear and eye,And brooks and birds and forestsAfford no minstrelsy;If waving grain and orchards,Freighted with fragrance rare,Draw not the spirit heavenwardAnd lift the soul in prayer;Then orisons are soullessThough voiced on bended knee,And small must be our knowledgeOf the Great Deity.
Beneath the shade deep in a dell,Where fairy spirits ever dwell,—Away from haunts of men,A living thing of godlike birth,By Nature's law springs from the earthTo gladden vale and glen.Ten thousand fairies clad in greenEnliven the sequestered scene,With noiseless dance and mirth,And minstrelsy of heaven conspiresWith liquid laughs and wind-played lyresTo charm the scenes of earth.The rocks and trees bedecked with moss,The million leaves with shimmering glossDrink from the dancing spray,Which rising from the dashing foam,Seeks its bright aerial homeAnd greets the orb of day.No discord here my spirit jars,No artful smile my comfort mars,For Nature's self is true;Here beauty, grace, and peace conspireTo make my inmost soul desireSome heart with kindred view.Who dwells in such companionship,Builds fountains whence the soul may sipHeaven's sweetest gift to man,Sees beauty reign as God designed,Has purer love for all mankind,And lives near Nature's plan.Loved mountain brook, so pure, so true,I'd rather spend an hour with you,And harmonize my soulWith the sweet melodies you sing,With all the joy your concerts bring,That sit where flowing bowlAnd jocund laugh of merry crowdIn accents wild, profane, and loud,Break on the midnight air;For you bring peace and joy and rest,Refreshment for a mind distressed,And banish grief and care.When I shall sleep my final sleep,Fain would I rest where you will keepA tuneful voice for me;Then to my spirit will be givenThe foretaste of a promised heaven—Nature's sweet harmony.
Beneath the shade deep in a dell,Where fairy spirits ever dwell,—Away from haunts of men,A living thing of godlike birth,By Nature's law springs from the earthTo gladden vale and glen.
Ten thousand fairies clad in greenEnliven the sequestered scene,With noiseless dance and mirth,And minstrelsy of heaven conspiresWith liquid laughs and wind-played lyresTo charm the scenes of earth.
The rocks and trees bedecked with moss,The million leaves with shimmering glossDrink from the dancing spray,Which rising from the dashing foam,Seeks its bright aerial homeAnd greets the orb of day.
No discord here my spirit jars,No artful smile my comfort mars,For Nature's self is true;Here beauty, grace, and peace conspireTo make my inmost soul desireSome heart with kindred view.
Who dwells in such companionship,Builds fountains whence the soul may sipHeaven's sweetest gift to man,Sees beauty reign as God designed,Has purer love for all mankind,And lives near Nature's plan.
Loved mountain brook, so pure, so true,I'd rather spend an hour with you,And harmonize my soulWith the sweet melodies you sing,With all the joy your concerts bring,That sit where flowing bowl
And jocund laugh of merry crowdIn accents wild, profane, and loud,Break on the midnight air;For you bring peace and joy and rest,Refreshment for a mind distressed,And banish grief and care.
When I shall sleep my final sleep,Fain would I rest where you will keepA tuneful voice for me;Then to my spirit will be givenThe foretaste of a promised heaven—Nature's sweet harmony.
Shy sylvan spirit singing so sweetly,Dancing to measures that flow with your songFrolic your fairy feet faultlessly, fleetly,As down the mountain vale haste you along.Babbling buoyantly by banks and bushes,Laughingly onward you speed to the sea,While from your mossy sides, joyously gushesFountains from Nature's bowl, healthful and free.Naiads and Nymphs hold revels at midnight,Dancing to music that swells from your flow;Dryad and Faun peep out at the moonlight,Thro' rents in green curtains that over you grow.Here would I pour my soul out in wooingThe spirit that dwells in your charmed home;Here would I linger gladly, if knowingMy waiting might lead it at last to come.Let me while here with you catch the spiritOf peace and comfort abiding in you,Then will my Nature truly inheritA love for the beautiful, noble, and true.
Shy sylvan spirit singing so sweetly,Dancing to measures that flow with your songFrolic your fairy feet faultlessly, fleetly,As down the mountain vale haste you along.
Babbling buoyantly by banks and bushes,Laughingly onward you speed to the sea,While from your mossy sides, joyously gushesFountains from Nature's bowl, healthful and free.
Naiads and Nymphs hold revels at midnight,Dancing to music that swells from your flow;Dryad and Faun peep out at the moonlight,Thro' rents in green curtains that over you grow.
Here would I pour my soul out in wooingThe spirit that dwells in your charmed home;Here would I linger gladly, if knowingMy waiting might lead it at last to come.
Let me while here with you catch the spiritOf peace and comfort abiding in you,Then will my Nature truly inheritA love for the beautiful, noble, and true.
I sat me down in a forest old,Beside a low murmuring stream;I lent my ear to the tale it told,For 'twas more than fancy's dream;It spoke of days when the earth was young,When it flowed more cheerfully,When its water sang the rocks among,As they danced down toward the sea."In the ancient days my banks were filled,Nor shrank I from heat or frost,For the shaded, moss-crowned earth then heldThe drops, so that none were lost."The old forest then stretched far away,And its sheltering arms embracedSweet perfumed plants and flowerets gay,Whose lives long ago have ceased."For the sturdy woodman plied the bladeAnd the forest soon lay low;Then the burning sun and the want of shadeSoon shrank my full crystal flow."Now when the rain comes, my waters roar,And my spoils are sad to see,For the earth-vaults where I kept my store,Hold no surplus now for me."Man's greed for wealth has my beauty marredAnd robbed me of early joys,But I sing again, with hope restored,When I see the girls and boys"Who come with their songs in merry May,O'er valley, hill, and plain,To plant young trees on this Arbor Day,So in joy I smile again."
I sat me down in a forest old,Beside a low murmuring stream;I lent my ear to the tale it told,For 'twas more than fancy's dream;
It spoke of days when the earth was young,When it flowed more cheerfully,When its water sang the rocks among,As they danced down toward the sea.
"In the ancient days my banks were filled,Nor shrank I from heat or frost,For the shaded, moss-crowned earth then heldThe drops, so that none were lost.
"The old forest then stretched far away,And its sheltering arms embracedSweet perfumed plants and flowerets gay,Whose lives long ago have ceased.
"For the sturdy woodman plied the bladeAnd the forest soon lay low;Then the burning sun and the want of shadeSoon shrank my full crystal flow.
"Now when the rain comes, my waters roar,And my spoils are sad to see,For the earth-vaults where I kept my store,Hold no surplus now for me.
"Man's greed for wealth has my beauty marredAnd robbed me of early joys,But I sing again, with hope restored,When I see the girls and boys
"Who come with their songs in merry May,O'er valley, hill, and plain,To plant young trees on this Arbor Day,So in joy I smile again."
To wander all day, by a purling streamThat flows through some mossy dell,And watch its silvery waters gleam,And list to its music's swellAs it dashes down some wild cascade,On its race to the wide, wide sea,With sweeter strains than old Orpheus played,Is supreme delight to me.
To wander all day, by a purling streamThat flows through some mossy dell,And watch its silvery waters gleam,And list to its music's swellAs it dashes down some wild cascade,On its race to the wide, wide sea,With sweeter strains than old Orpheus played,Is supreme delight to me.
Softly the breezes dance o'er the meadows,Wafting the perfume of sweet-scented May;Flecked are the green fields with sunshine and shadows,Telling so gently of earth's perfect day.From moss-covered rocks whereon we are seated,Nature spreads scenes such as art cannot yield;With flowers of rare beauty our vision is greeted,Our ears, with the bird-notes of forest and field.Dogwood with tints from pink to pure whiteness,Columbine crimson with pinnacled sheen,Pinks of carnation, and orchards in brightness,Vie with the meadows of velvety green.The bobolink chatters in notes of perfection,The oriole sings a love-song to his mate,The whippoorwill clings to his perch for protection,The crow laughs ha! ha! when the evening grows late.Squirrel and humming-bird flit by like spirits,Jack-in-the-pulpit stands ready to preach,The roll of the anthem the wood-choir inherits,Surpasses the harmony mortals can reach.The song of the bird-note, the hum of the bee,The tinkling of waters, the bursting of leaves,The perfume of flowers, the blossoming tree,Are sermons from Nature the pulpit ne'er gives.My soul sings with these, with these has communion,They lift me in thought to realms pure and bright;They speak of a Nature with which to have unionDispels all my sorrows and gives me delight.Every sigh of the breeze, every note of wild bird,Every plant that springs up from earth's fertile sod,Are sermons of eloquence when rightly heard,That soothe me and bring me nearer to God.
Softly the breezes dance o'er the meadows,Wafting the perfume of sweet-scented May;Flecked are the green fields with sunshine and shadows,Telling so gently of earth's perfect day.
From moss-covered rocks whereon we are seated,Nature spreads scenes such as art cannot yield;With flowers of rare beauty our vision is greeted,Our ears, with the bird-notes of forest and field.
Dogwood with tints from pink to pure whiteness,Columbine crimson with pinnacled sheen,Pinks of carnation, and orchards in brightness,Vie with the meadows of velvety green.
The bobolink chatters in notes of perfection,The oriole sings a love-song to his mate,The whippoorwill clings to his perch for protection,The crow laughs ha! ha! when the evening grows late.
Squirrel and humming-bird flit by like spirits,Jack-in-the-pulpit stands ready to preach,The roll of the anthem the wood-choir inherits,Surpasses the harmony mortals can reach.
The song of the bird-note, the hum of the bee,The tinkling of waters, the bursting of leaves,The perfume of flowers, the blossoming tree,Are sermons from Nature the pulpit ne'er gives.
My soul sings with these, with these has communion,They lift me in thought to realms pure and bright;They speak of a Nature with which to have unionDispels all my sorrows and gives me delight.
Every sigh of the breeze, every note of wild bird,Every plant that springs up from earth's fertile sod,Are sermons of eloquence when rightly heard,That soothe me and bring me nearer to God.
I would rather dwell with NatureAnd be her favored child,To love plant, tree, and creatureThat live in forest wild;And feel the satisfactionThat I can understandThe beauty and attractionOf motives, noble, grand,That fashioned for man's pleasureThis brilliant world of ours,Than possess the jeweled treasureOf all earth's kingly powers.
I would rather dwell with NatureAnd be her favored child,To love plant, tree, and creatureThat live in forest wild;And feel the satisfactionThat I can understandThe beauty and attractionOf motives, noble, grand,That fashioned for man's pleasureThis brilliant world of ours,Than possess the jeweled treasureOf all earth's kingly powers.
Beautiful, beautiful Horicon!Over thy waters so blue,Sunshine and shadow in silence flit on,Painting fresh scenes on the ecstatic view.Blue are the skies that kiss the green topsOf sentinel mountains grand,Pure are the waters descending in drops,Or rushing in torrents from mountain to strand.Like emerald crowns thy islands rise,And mirrored back are doubly seenGray rocks of the mountains, the cloud-flecked skies,Gorgeous adornments, and fringes of green.Silent and wild are the fairy shoresSave song of the warbling bird,Or the glen wherein the cataract roars,Or the pine tree's branch by strong breezes stirred.When sunset purples the dark ravineAnd throws crimson on thy breast,Soft-tinged are the hues that e'er lie betweenThy shores and the peaks that rise in the west.I see in my fancy days long past,I hear the brave soldier's song,The bugle that summoned hosts at its blast,Whose notes died in echoes the green shores along.I see in the past ten-thousand oars,And a thousand boats so grand,As they leave the marge of thy southern shoresTo meet the French foes of Montcalm's command.I see Abercrombie grandly braveWith his fifteen thousand men,Glide swiftly, silently over the waveTo contest from which many came not again.Beautiful, beautiful Horicon!How changed is the scene to-day,The pageant of war and carnage is goneThy waters now bear the light-hearted and gay.
Beautiful, beautiful Horicon!Over thy waters so blue,Sunshine and shadow in silence flit on,Painting fresh scenes on the ecstatic view.
Blue are the skies that kiss the green topsOf sentinel mountains grand,Pure are the waters descending in drops,Or rushing in torrents from mountain to strand.
Like emerald crowns thy islands rise,And mirrored back are doubly seenGray rocks of the mountains, the cloud-flecked skies,Gorgeous adornments, and fringes of green.
Silent and wild are the fairy shoresSave song of the warbling bird,Or the glen wherein the cataract roars,Or the pine tree's branch by strong breezes stirred.
When sunset purples the dark ravineAnd throws crimson on thy breast,Soft-tinged are the hues that e'er lie betweenThy shores and the peaks that rise in the west.
I see in my fancy days long past,I hear the brave soldier's song,The bugle that summoned hosts at its blast,Whose notes died in echoes the green shores along.
I see in the past ten-thousand oars,And a thousand boats so grand,As they leave the marge of thy southern shoresTo meet the French foes of Montcalm's command.
I see Abercrombie grandly braveWith his fifteen thousand men,Glide swiftly, silently over the waveTo contest from which many came not again.
Beautiful, beautiful Horicon!How changed is the scene to-day,The pageant of war and carnage is goneThy waters now bear the light-hearted and gay.
Who loves devoutly Nature wild,And sees in her a Master's hand,Will seldom be a wayward childThough foul temptations round him stand.Magnetic forces draw him backFrom following low and slavish ways,His soul revolts at the attackThat foe of Nature—Vice, displays.
Who loves devoutly Nature wild,And sees in her a Master's hand,Will seldom be a wayward childThough foul temptations round him stand.Magnetic forces draw him backFrom following low and slavish ways,His soul revolts at the attackThat foe of Nature—Vice, displays.
When on mountain road I travel,Stained with dust and dirt and gravel,In cool shade I sit me down;Oft I see among the bushesFeathered friends—shy brown thrushes,Sweetest singers of renown.Smooth his coat though brown and dusty,His mellow voice is ever trustyAnd clear and soft and sweet;On the tree-top oft he's singing,In the woods his voice is ringingWhile hills his notes repeat.I have heard him in the morningWhen the sun was just adorningTops of tallest forest trees,Pour his soul of song so tender,That to God he seemed to renderThanksgiving harmonies.Every feather he did quiver,As his song he would deliverIn bursts so wild and grand,That creation's face would gladdenAs the air with music ladenSeemed fraught with choral band.Some notes that swelled his speckled breastWere like soft zephyrs from the westThat fall on June-blown flowers;So full, so sweet, they lull the soul,And like a spirit voice controlMy reveries for hours.Soulful song, enwrapped in feather,Harbinger of pleasant weather,Sing softly unto me.Your tuneful notes at morn and evenAre antepasts of joys in heavenThat bringfelicity.Attune your joyous song for me,And lift my soul that it may seeThe world in beauty bright;Sing on, sing on, until the woodShall laugh aloud in merry mood,And sadness take her flight!Sweet warbling bird in brown attire,Your notes of praise do me inspireWith love for Nature wild;Your songs of joy so sweetly sung,By heart and throat divinely strung,Proclaim you Nature's child.
When on mountain road I travel,Stained with dust and dirt and gravel,In cool shade I sit me down;Oft I see among the bushesFeathered friends—shy brown thrushes,Sweetest singers of renown.
Smooth his coat though brown and dusty,His mellow voice is ever trustyAnd clear and soft and sweet;On the tree-top oft he's singing,In the woods his voice is ringingWhile hills his notes repeat.
I have heard him in the morningWhen the sun was just adorningTops of tallest forest trees,Pour his soul of song so tender,That to God he seemed to renderThanksgiving harmonies.
Every feather he did quiver,As his song he would deliverIn bursts so wild and grand,That creation's face would gladdenAs the air with music ladenSeemed fraught with choral band.
Some notes that swelled his speckled breastWere like soft zephyrs from the westThat fall on June-blown flowers;So full, so sweet, they lull the soul,And like a spirit voice controlMy reveries for hours.
Soulful song, enwrapped in feather,Harbinger of pleasant weather,Sing softly unto me.Your tuneful notes at morn and evenAre antepasts of joys in heavenThat bringfelicity.
Attune your joyous song for me,And lift my soul that it may seeThe world in beauty bright;Sing on, sing on, until the woodShall laugh aloud in merry mood,And sadness take her flight!
Sweet warbling bird in brown attire,Your notes of praise do me inspireWith love for Nature wild;Your songs of joy so sweetly sung,By heart and throat divinely strung,Proclaim you Nature's child.