Volume Ii Part 15 (1/2)

Around this lovely valley rise The purple hills of Paradise.

O, softly on yon banks of haze Her rosy face the Summer lays!

Becalmed along the azure sky, The argosies of Cloudland lie, Whose sh.o.r.es, with many a s.h.i.+ning rift, Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.

II.

Through all the long midsummer day The meadow-sides are sweet with hay.

I seek the coolest sheltered seat, Just where the field and forest meet,-- Where grow the pine trees tall and bland, The ancient oaks austere and grand, And fringy roots and pebbles fret The ripples of the rivulet.

III.

I watch the mowers, as they go Through the tall gra.s.s a white-sleeved row.

With even stroke their scythes they swing, In tune their merry whetstones ring.

Behind, the nimble youngsters run, And toss the thick swaths in the sun.

The cattle graze, while, warm and still, Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, And bright, where summer breezes break, The green wheat crinkles like a lake.

IV.

The b.u.t.terfly and humble bee Come to the pleasant woods with me; Quickly before me runs the quail, Her chickens skulk behind the rail; High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, And the woodp.e.c.k.e.r pecks and flits, Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, The swarming insects drone and hum, The partridge beats his throbbing drum, The squirrel leaps among the boughs, And chatters in his leafy house, The oriole flashes by; and, look!

Into the mirror of the brook, Where the vain bluebird trims his coat, Two tiny feathers fall and float.

V.

As silently, as tenderly, The down of peace descends on me.

O, this is peace! I have no need Of friend to talk, of book to read.

A dear Companion here abides; Close to my thrilling heart He hides; The holy silence is His voice: I lie and listen and rejoice.

J. T. TROWBRIDGE

THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES.

I.

That way look, my Infant, lo!

What a pretty baby-show!

See the Kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leaves--one--two--and three-- From the lofty elder-tree!

II.

Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair, Eddying round and round they sink Slowly, slowly: one might think, From the motions that are made, Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or Faery hither tending,-- To this lower world descending, Each invisible and mute, In his wavering parachute.

III.

--But the Kitten, how she starts, Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!

First at one, and then its fellow Just as light and just as yellow; There are many now--now one-- Now they stop and there are none.