THE TRAILING ARBUTUS.

BY SARAH H. WHITMAN.

THERE's a flower that grows by the greenwood tree, In its desolate beauty more dear to me,

Than all that bask in the noontide beam,

Through the long, bright summer by fount and stream
Like a pure hope nursed beneath sorrow's wing,

Its timid buds from the cold moss spring,
Their delicate hues like the pink sea-shell,

Or the shaded blush of the hyacinth's bell,
Their breath more sweet than the faint perfume
That breathes from the bridal orange-bloom.

It is not found by the garden wall,

It wreathes no brow in the festive hall,

But dwells in the depths of the shadowy wood,

And shines like a star in the solitude.

Never did numbers its name prolong,

Aa

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THE TRAILING ARBUTUS.

Ne'er hath it floated on wings of song,
Bard and minstrel have passed it by,

And left it in silence and shade to die.

But with joy to its cradle the wild-bees come
And praise its beauty with drony hum,
And children love in the season of spring
To watch for its early blossoming.

In the dewy morn of an April day,

When the traveller lingers along the way,
When the sod is sprinkled with tender green,
Where the rivulets water the earth unseen,
When the floating fringe on the maple's crest
Rivals the tulip's crimson vest,

And the budding leaves of the birch-tree throw
A trembling shade on the turf below,
When my flower awakes from its dreamy rest
And yields its lips to the sweet south-west,-
Then, in those beautiful days of spring,
With hearts as light as the wild-bird's wing,
Flinging their tasks and their toys aside,
Gay little groups through the wood-paths glide,
Peeping and peering among the trees,

As they scent its breath on the passing breeze,
Hunting about among lichens gray,

And the tangled mosses beside the way,
Till they catch the glance of its quiet eye,
Like light that breaks through a cloudy sky.

THE TRAILING ARBUTUS.

For me, sweet blossom, thy tendrils cling

Still round my heart as in childhood's spring,

And thy breath, as it floats on the wandering air,
Wakes all the music of memory there.

Thou recallest the time when, a fearless child,
I roved all day through the wood-paths wild,
Seeking thy blossoms by bank and brae
Wherever the snow-drifts had melted away.
Now, as I linger mid crowds alone,
Haunted by echoes of music flown,
When the shadows deepen around my way,
And the light of reason but leads astray,
When affections, nurtured with fondest care
By the trusting heart, become traitors there;
When weary of all that the world bestows,
I turn to nature for calm repose,

How fain my spirit in some far glen,

Would fold her wings mid thy flowers again!

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THE HUNTER'S VISION.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

UPON a rock that, high and sheer,
Rose from the mountain's breast,

A weary hunter of the deer,

Had sat him down to rest,

And bared to the soft summer air,
His hot red brow and sweaty hair.

All dim in haze the mountains lay,
With dimmer vales between;
And rivers glimmered on their way,

By forests, faintly seen;

While ever rose a murmuring sound,

From brooks below and bees around.

THE HUNTER'S VISION.

He listened, till he seemed to hear

A strain, so soft and low,
That whether in the mind or ear

The listener scarce might know.

With such a tone so sweet and mild,
The watching mother lulls her child.

Thou weary huntsman, thus it said,
Thou faint with toil and heat,
The pleasant land of rest is spread

Before thy very feet,

And those whom thou wouldst gladly see,

Are waiting there to welcome thee.

He looked, and 'twixt the earth and sky,

Amid the noontide haze,

A shadowy region met his eye,

And grew beneath his gaze,

As if the vapors of the air

Had gathered into shapes so fair.

Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers

Showed bright on rocky bank,

And fountains welled beneath the bowers,
Where deer and pheasant drank.

He saw the glittering streams, he heard

The rustling bough and twittering bird.

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