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BY W. C. BRYANT.
When breezes are soft and skies are fair,
Yet pure its waters—its shallows are bright
And sweetest the golden autumn day .
Yet fair as thou art, thou shunn'st to glide,
Or the simpler comes with basket and book,
Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me,
Still—save the chirp of birds that feed
188 GREEN RIVER.
That fairy music I never hear, Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, And mark them winding away from sight, Darkened with shade or flashing with light, While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings, And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, But I wish that fate had left me free To wander these quiet haunts with thee, Till the eating cares of earth should depart, And the peace of the scene pass into my heart; And I envy thy stream, as it glides along, Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song.
Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, And mingle among the jostling crowd, Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud — I often come to this quiet place, To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, And gaze upon thee in silent dream, For in thy lonely and lovely stream, An image of that calm life appears, That won my heart in my greener years.
EXTRACT FROM "GERALDINE."
I Know a spot where poets fain would dwell,
As bees draw honey from the rose's cell,
To hive among the treasures they have wrought;
And there a cottage from a sylvan screen,
Sent up its curling smoke amidst the green.
Around that hermit-home of quietude,
And nothing ever ventured to intrude,
Or honey-laden harvesters that flew
Humming away to drink the morning dew.
Around the door the honey-suckle climbed,
And never minstrel sang nor poet rhymed
Sweeter to sense than that enchanting dell,
Where home-sick memory fondly loves to dwell.