Her clear, warm heaven at noon,-the mist that shrouds Her twilight hills,—her cool and starry eves, The glorious splendour of her sunset clouds, The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds, Where'er his web of song her poet weaves; And his mind's brightest vision but displays The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. And when you dream of woman, and her love; move, Be by some spirit of your dreaming hour Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air To the green land I sing, then wake, you'll find them there. MUSIC. TO A BOY OF FOUR YEARS OLD, ON HEARING HIM PLAY ON THE HARP. SWEET boy! before thy lips can learn In speech thy wishes to make known, Are "thoughts that breathe and words that burn" Heard in thy music's tone. Were Genius tasked to prove the might, The magic of her hidden spell, She well might name thee with delight As her own miracle. Who that hath heard, from summer trees, The sweet wild song of summer birds, When morning to the far-off breeze Whispers her bidding words; Or listened to the bird of night, But deemed that spirits of the air Had left their native homes in heaven, And that the music warbled there To earth awhile was given? For with that music came the thought Breathed in their woodland airs. And when, sweet boy! thy baby fingers It calls up visions of past days, Revive in joy or grief within us, Like lost friends wakened from their sleep, With all their early power to win us Alike to smile or weep. And when we gaze upon that face, And mark its dimpled artlessness, |