The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry Flew many a glittering insect here and there, And darted up and down the butterfly, That seemed a living blossom of the air. The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where The violent rain had pent them; in the way Strolled groups of damsels frolicsome and fair; The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay; And 'twixt the heavy swaths the children were at play. It was a scene of peace—and, like a spell, And glassy river and white waterfall, And happy living things that trod the bright And beauteous scene; while far beyond them all, On many a lovely valley, out of sight, Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light. I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, When o'er earth's continents, and isles between, The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea, And married nations dwell in harmony; Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers. And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past. Lo, the clouds roll away-they break-they fly, And, like the glorious light of summer, cast O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie. AUTUMN WOODS. ERE, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, The mountains that infold, In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round, Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground. I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendors glow, My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet south-west, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown Along the winding way. And far in heaven, the while, The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,— The sweetest of the year. Where now the solemn shade, Verdure and gloom where many branches meet; So grateful, when the noon of summer made The valleys sick with heat? |