ANGLING IN THE MOUNTAINS.
Softly embosoming another sky,
Still as we gazed assumed a lovelier glow,
And seemed to send us looks of amity.
Our hearts were open to the gracious love
Of Nature, smiling like a happy bride;
So following the still impulse from above,
Down the green slope we wind with airy glide,
And pitch our snowy tent on that fair water's side.
Ah me! even now I see before me stand,
Among the verdant holly-boughs half-hid,
The little radiant airy pyramid,
Like some wild dwelling built in Fairy-land.
As silently as gathering cloud it rose,
And seems a cloud descended on the earth,
Disturbing not the Sabbath-day's repose,
Yet gently stirring at the quiet birth
Of every short-lived breeze: the sunbeams greet
The beauteous stranger in the lonely bay;
Close to its shading tree two streamlets meet,
With gentle glide, as weary of their play;
And in the liquid lustre of the lake
Its image sleeps, reflected far below;
Such image as the clouds of summer make,
Clear seen amid the waveless water's glow,
As slumbering infant still, and pure as April snow.
Wild though the dwelling seem, thus rising fair,
A sudden stranger 'mid the sylvan scene,
One spot of radiance on surrounding green,
Human it is—and human souls are there!
Look through that opening in the canvass wall,
Through which by fits the scarce-felt breezes play,
-Upon three happy souls thine eyes will fall,
The summer lambs are not more blest than they.
On the green turf all motionless they lie,
In dreams romantic as the dreams of sleep,
The filmy air slow-glimmering on their eye,
And in their ear the murmur of the deep.
Or haply now by some wild-winding brook,
Deep, silent pool, or waters rushing loud,
In thought they visit many a fairy nook
That rising mists in rainbow colours shroud,
And ply the Angler's sport involved in mountain cloud.
Yes! dear to us that solitary trade,
'Mid vernal peace in peacefulness pursued,
Through rocky glen, wild moor, and hanging wood,
White-flowering meadow, and romantic glade!
The sweetest visions of our boyish years
Come to our spirits with a murmuring tone
Of running waters,-and one stream appears,
Remembered all, tree, willow, bank, and stone!
How glad were we, when after sunny showers
Its voice came to us issuing from the school!
How fled the vacant, solitary hours,
By dancing rivulet, or silent pool!
And still our souls retain in manhood's prime
The love of joys our childish years that blest;
So now encircled by these hills sublime,
We Anglers, wandering with a tranquil breast,
Build in this happy vale a fairy bower of rest!
COME, look at this plant, with its narrow pale leaves, And its tall, slim, delicate stem,
Thinly studded with flowers! Yes, with flowers!
Don't you see at each joint there's a little brown star? But, in truth, there's no beauty in them.
So you ask why I keep it? the little mean thing! Why I stick it up here, just in sight;'Tis a fancy of mine.-" A strange fancy!" you say; "No accounting for tastes!" In this instance you may, For the flower . . . But I'll tell you to-night.
Some six hours hence, when the Lady Moon
Looks down on that bastioned wall,
When the twinkling stars dance silently
On the rippling surface of the sea,
And the heavy night-dews fall;
Then meet me again in this casement niche,
On the spot where we're standing now.-
Nay, question not wherefore? Perhaps, with me,
To look out on the night, and the broad, bright sea,
And hear its majestic flow!
Well, we're met here again; and the moonlight sleeps
On the sea, and the bastioned wall;
And the flowers there below-How the night-wind brings Their delicious breath on its dewy wings!
"But there's one," say you, "sweeter than all!
"Which is it? The myrtle, or jessamine,
Or their sovereign lady the rose?
Or the heliotrope? or the virgin's bower?
What! neither?"-Oh, no; 'tis some other flower,
Far sweeter than either of those.
Far sweeter! And where, think you, groweth the plant
That exhaleth such perfume rare?
Look about, up and down-but take care! or you'll break, With your elbow, that poor little thing that's so weak,"Why 'tis that smells so sweet I declare!"
Ah ha! is it that? Have you found out now
Why I cherish that odd little fright?
"All is not gold that glitters," you know;
And it is not all worth makes the greatest show
In the glare of the strongest light.
There are human flowers full many, I trow,
As unlovely as that by your side,
That a common observer passeth by
With a scornful lip, and a careless eye,
In the heyday of pleasure and pride.
THE NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK.
But move one of those to some quiet spot,
From the mid-day sun's broad glare,
Where domestic peace broods with dove-like wing;
And try if the homely, despised thing,
May not yield sweet fragrance there.
Or wait till the days of trial come
The dark days of trouble and woe;
When they shrink, and shut up, late so bright in the sun;
Then turn to the little despised one,
And see if 'twill serve you so.
And judge not again at a single glance,
Nor pass sentence hastily:
There are many good things in this world of ours
Many sweet things and rare-weeds that prove precious
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