52 THE HAPPY VALLEY. Half turned the matchless sculpture of her head, One sat alone within a shady nook, With wild-wood songs the lazy hours beguiling; Or looking at her shadow in the brook, Trying to frown, then at the effort smiling; She threw in flowers, and watched them float away, Some lay like Thetis' nymphs along the shore, Sinking, like flowers at eve, beside the rocks, Of the low waves was heard. In little flocks, Others went trooping through the wooded alleys, THOMAS MILLER. F by thy banks, O gently winding stream, And rustling sedge, and fields with king cups gay, On thy green verge, mild flood, and waters be! Taste the same sweets from cloudless youth's increase, J. F. HOLLINGS. 54 THE WAIL OF THE RIVER. THE WAIL OF THE RIVER. PHAT saith the river to the rushes grey, Rushes sadly bending, River slowly wending? Who can tell the whispered things they say? Cast your withered garlands in the stream; Low autumnal branches, Round the skiff that launches, Wavering downward through the lands of dream, Draw him tideward down; but not in haste. Mouldering daylight lingers; Night, with her cold fingers, Sprinkles moonbeams on the dim sea-waste. Ever, ever fled away! Vainly cherished! vainly chased! |