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Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.

And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his plenty the sea

Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood-tide must be:
Look how the grace of the sea doth go

About and about through the intricate channels that flow
Here and there,
Everywhere,

Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes,

And the marsh is meshed with a million veins,
That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow
In the rose-and-silver evening glow.

Farewell, my lord Sun!

The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run

"Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh grass

stir;

Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr; Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease to run; And the sea and the marsh are one.

How still the plains of the waters be!

The tide is in his ecstasy;

The tide is at its highest height:

And it is night.

And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep

Roll in on the souls of men,

But who will reveal to our waking ken

The forms that swim and the shapes that creep

Under the waters of sleep?

And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in

On the length and the breadth of the marvellous marshes of Glynn.

SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE

Out of the hills of Habersham.
Down the valleys of Hall,

I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall,
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side
With a lover's pain to attain the plain
Far from the hills of Habersham,
Far from the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham,
All through the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried Abide, abide,

The wilful waterweeds held me thrall,
The laving laurels turned my tide,

The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay,
The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide,
Here in the hills of Habersham,
Here in the valleys of Hall.

High o'er the hills of Habersham,
Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold

Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall

Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold

Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
These glades in the valleys of Hall.

And oft in the hills of Habersham,
And oft in the valleys of Hall,

The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone

Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,
And many a luminous jewel lone
-Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,
Ruby, garnet, and amethyst-

Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
And, oh, not the valleys of Hall
Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.
Downward the voices of Duty call—

Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main,
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
And the lordly main from beyond the plain
Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,

Calls through the valleys of Hall.

Compare with the last poem above: Tennyson's Brook; Southey's The Cataract of Lodore; Hayne's Meadow Brook.

6. Stephen C. Foster (1826-1864) was the author of the popular Old Folks at Home and My Old Kentucky Home.

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All de world am sad and dreary,
Ebery where I roam;

Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,

Far from de old folks at home!

All round de little farm I wandered
When I was young,

Den many happy days I squandered,
Many de songs I sung,

When I was playing wid my brudder
Happy was I;

Oh, take me to my kind old mudder!
Dere let me live and die.

One little hut among de bushes,
One dat I love,

Still sadly to my memory rushes,

No matter where I rove.

When will I see de bees a-humming

All round de comb?

When will I hear de banjo tumming,
Down in my good old home?

All de world am sad and dreary,
Ebery where I roam,

Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,
Far from de old folks at home!

7. Alice Cary (1820-1871) composed some beautiful lyrics. Horace Greeley said of her: "I do not believe that she ever wrote one line that she did not believe to be true. She concentrated all her powers and energies on the task of making truth more palpable and good, more acceptable to hungry waiting souls."

BALDER'S WIFE

Her casement like a watchful eye

From the face of the wall looks down,
Lashed round with ivy vines so dry,
And with ivy leaves so brown.
Her golden head in her lily hand
Like a star in the spray o' the sea,

And wearily rocking to and fro,
She sings so sweet and she sings so low
To the little babe on her knee.

But let her sing what tune she may,
Never so light and never so gay,
It slips and slides and dies away

To the moan of the willow water.

Like some bright honey-hearted rose
That the wild wind rudely mocks,

She blooms from the dawn to the day's sweet close
Hemmed in with a world of rocks.

The livelong night she does not stir,

But keeps at her casement lorn,

And the skirts of the darkness shine with her
As they shine with the light o' the morn,
And all who pass may hear her lay,
But let it be what tune it may,

It slips and slides and dies away

To the moan of the willow water.

And there, within that one-eyed tower,
Lashed round with the ivy brown,
She droops like some unpitied flower
That the rain-fall washes down:
The damp o' the dew in her golden hair,
Her cheek like the spray o' the sea,
And wearily rocking to and fro,
She sings so sweet and she sings so low
To the little babe on her knee.
But let her sing what tune she may,
Never so glad and never so gay,
It slips and slides and dies away

To the moan of the willow water.

8. Phoebe Cary (1824-1871), the younger sister of Alice, is remembered for the familiar hymn which follows.

NEARER HOME

One sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er;

I am nearer home to-day

Than I ever have been before;

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