Slopes its green velvet to the sedge,
Tufting the mirrored water's edge,
Where the slow eddies wrinkling creep
Mid swaying grass in stillness deep:
The sweet wind scarce has breath to turn
The edges of the leaves, or stir
The fragile wreath of gossamer
Embroidered on yon clump of fern.
The stream incessant greets my ear
In hollow dashings, full round tones,
Purling through alder branches here,
There gurgling o'er the tinkling stones;
The rumble of the waterfall
Majestic sounding over all.
Before me spreads the sheltered pool,
Pictured with tree-shapes black and cool;
Here, the roofed water seems to be
A solid mass of ebony;
There, the broad surface glances bright
In dazzling gleams of spangled light;
Now the quick darting waterfly
Ploughs its light furrow, skimming by,
While circling o'er in mazy rings
The chirping swallow dips his wings;
Relieved against yon sunny glare
The gnat-swarms, dust-like, speck the air;
From yon deep cove where lily-gems
Are floating by their silken stems,
Out glides the dipping duck, to seek
The narrow windings of the creek,
The glitterings of his purple back
Disclosing far his sinuous track;
Now, sliding down yon grassy brink,
I see the otter plunge and sink,
Yon bubbling streak betrays his rise,
And through the furrowing sheet he plies.
The aspen shakes, the hemlock hums,
Damp with the shower the west-wind comes;
Rustling in heaps the quivering grass,
It darkening dots the streamlet's glass,
And rises with the herald-breeze
The cloud's dark umber o'er the trees;
A veil of gauze-like mist it flings,
Dimples the stream with transient rings,
And soon beneath this tent-like tree
The swift, bright glancing streaks I see,
And hear around in murmuring strain
The gentle music of the rain.
Then bursts the sunshine warm and gay,
The misty curtain melts away,
The cloud in fragments breaks, and through
Trembles in spots the smiling blue;
A fresh, damp sweetness fills the scene,
From dripping leaf and moistened earth,
The odor of the wintergreen
Floats on the airs that now have birth;
Dashes and air-bells all about
Proclaim the gambols of the trout,
And calling bush and answering tree
Echo with woodland melody.
Now the piled west in pomp displays
The radiant forms that sunset weaves;
And slanting lines of golden haze
Are streaming through the sparkling leaves.
A clear, sweet, joyous strain is heard,
It is the minstrel mocking-bird.
The strain of every songster floats
Within his rich and splendid notes;
The bluebird's warble, brief and shrill;
The wailing of the whippoorwill;
The robin's call, the jay's harsh screech,
His own sweet music heard through each.
His three-toned anthem now he sings,
Liquid and low and soft it rings ;
Then rising with a swell more clear,
It melts upon the bending ear,
Till with a piercing, flourished flight,
He bids the darkening scene good night.
Wilmington, Del.
ST. JOHN'S CHURCH.
FOUNDED BY ALEXIS I. DU PONT.
EVER of dust beneath did sculptured tomb So eloquently speak as this gray spire Of thee, O laborer without hire, whose day Closed with the noon, thy Master calling thee Straight from the field before thy work was done
To rest with him above. Before thy work
Was done? We dare not say of thee, whose life
Was filled to overflowing with good deeds
Who crowded labors in the noontide hour
So vast as this, that aught was left undone.
No. Blessed be He who set thee to thy task,
And when the hours of servitude were o'er
Redeemed the promise of our Christ, and called
Thee home to glories of thy heritage.
JOY like a wave o'erflowed my soul,
While looking on its basin round,
That fancy named a sparkling bowl
By hoop of fadeless emerald bound,
From which boon Nature's holy hand
Baptized the nymphs of mountain land.
It blushes in the morning's glow,
And glitters in the sunset ray,
When brooks that run far, far below
Have murmured out farewell to day;
The moonlight on its placid breast,
When dark the valley, loves to rest.
Wheeling in circles overhead,
The feathered king a war-scream gave;
His form, with pinion wide outspread,
Was traced so clearly on the wave,
That seemingly its glass was stirred
By flappings of the gallant bird.
Not far away were rocky shelves
With the soft moss of ages lined,
And seated there a row of elves
By moonlight would the poet find:
Fairies, from slumber in the shade
Waking with soft-voiced serenade.
The waters slept, by wind uncurled,
Encircled by a zone of green :
The reflex of some purer world
Within their radiant blue was seen, -
I felt, while musing on the shore,
As if strong wings my soul upbore.
Lake, flashing in the mountain's crown!
Thought pictures thee some diamond bright, -
That dawn had welcomed, - fallen down
From the starred canopy of night;
Or chrysolite, by thunder rent
From Heaven's eternal battlement.
William Henry Cuyler Hosmer.
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