Chapter 4

Its home is in the sterile soil Deserted by the rustic swain Because it yields not for his toil The recompense he would obtain. By wall and ledge, and rock, and mound, Where'er neglect and ruin reign In greatest beauty there 'tis found, To cheer and clothe the earth again.

Down in the soul there dwells a thought That finds expression not in word, That counts display and promise naught Unless a voice divine is heard, That speaks to cheer the desolate, That yields a balm distilled from God; Whose type should be the flower of State-- The sun-lit, heaven-born _Goldenrod_.

BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES.

Buttercups and daisies,-- Bright children of the lawn-- To the fields are nodding In the winds of June. Such beauty of the meadows Gives a charm so sweet, so strong, The robin's spirit bursts aloud In animated song.

Buttercups and daisies Bloom adown the narrow lane, Beside the brook in pasture, And over the wide plain; Tangles in the meadow Where ten million flowers bloom, Draw bee and bird and squirrel, With their beauty and perfume.

Buttercups and daisies Aglow in morning light, And pendant dew-drops sparkling-- Bright diamonds of night-- Send a matin greeting To the rising god of day, As he warms them gently With his golden ray.

Buttercups and daisies Are jewels to be worn By all sons and daughters Of Nature, truly born; They speak a perfect language, They lead to the divine, They cheer the weak and weary They strengthen and refine.

Buttercups and daisies May softly o'er me bloom, When I am sweetly sleeping Within my restful tomb, And when by mortal beings I may forgotten be, The buttercups and daisies Shall be dear friends to me.

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Modest, meek anemone, Loved wind-flower of the spring, You fill our hearts with gladness, For with your smile you bring The vitalizing sunshine, The fruitful April shower, The pipe of feathered songster, And bud of sylvan bower.

THE FRINGED GENTIAN.

I remember well, in my boyhood's romp, The beautiful flower that grew near the swamp, With its spiral screw Of cerulean hue, While on the marge of its petals grew A fringe, such as art never weaves.

I plucked it with zeal, for my heart was aglow, Its color and form, my mother to show, And gladden her eyes With the exquisite prize I had found when autumnal zephyr sighs 'Mong the faded flowers and leaves.

Fair emblem of maiden adorned as a bride, The tintings of heaven within you abide; You smilingly stand In bridal robe grand, For a lover who offers an ardent hand, And a heart that never deceives.

When others have left us, we cherish the one Who remains firm and faithful till vict'ry's won; Though cold be the storm, The heart is e'er warm For the tried and true, who weave such a charm Round the heart of him who receives.

THE DANDELION.

Meadows are dotted, far and wide, With velvet stars that bring A golden off'ring of delight,-- Flower-goslings of the spring.

Then gray-haired pappus, downy, soft, Follows with pistils loose, And the gosling of the early spring Becomes a white-fledged goose.

Its feathers float on ev'ry breeze That fans the verdant mead, And children count the hours of day By breaths that waft the seed.

Soft, silent Time that comes apace O'er human flowers that bloom, You quickly change youth to old age, And lead life toward the tomb.

Bright turf-born gosling of the field, Teach us to smile, and give A perfume from a fragrant soul, That on and on shall live.

THE FLOWERS I LOVE.

I sometimes think I love the rose More than all other flowers, Because its fragrance falls on me In copious, dainty showers; And blushing in its modesty, I press it to my heart, As the idol of my dalliance That should no more depart.

But when I see the lily fair-- The meadow's beauteous queen-- Surrounded by her myriad friends All dressed in Nature's green, My heart goes out in ecstasy, And naught on earth to me Seems fairer type of loveliness, Than this daughter of th' lea.

When bright snow-flake-petaled daisy, Whose heart of yellow gold, Is richer vein of pure delight Than miner-kings may hold, Sends out her invitation warm, To search in her domain For berries like a bleeding heart, I cannot well decline.

And then the graceful goldenrod With flaunting, sun-lit plume, Whose lateness lends a special joy And sweetness to its bloom, Invites me with its wind-blown nod, To be its devotee, With honesty I must confess It has a charm for me.

There's a heaven-born flower--the aster, That drinks nocturnal dews From late autumn's chilly fountains, And steals the sunset hues; It smiles from wayside tangles And coyly casts its eyes, Yet holds me by its modesty A voluntary prize.

I know not which I love the most,-- I know I love them all,-- For God hath given each its grace, And each its special call; Each has a mission to perform, A purpose and an end, And sweet is the companionship Of each bright flower-friend.

TRAILING ARBUTUS.

Under the brown leaves meekly abiding, The gem of the spring-flowers nestles away, In copse near th' wood, where covertly hiding, It catches the glow of Aurora's first ray.

Where moss and leaf are strewn in profusion-- A bed whereon gods might gladly repose-- Apart from the world, in rural seclusion The pride of the moorland--arbutus grows.

In mossy fields, 'mong refuse of bushes, With rose-tinted lips, like herald of morn, With but a leaf to conceal secret blushes, Earth's first vernal offspring is sweetly born.

Modest, retiring, and beautiful sprite, Emblem of graces a maiden should wear, Great is the pleasure, supreme the delight Of searching for joys such coyness doth bear.

Child of the woodland in beauty abiding, Whose breath scents the air of early spring morns, Fairies of magical powers are residing In nooks and valleys your presence adorns.

Oft in the springtime I wander away To dwell for a time in your blest retreat, Counting such pleasure far sweeter to me Than bustle of city or throng of the street.

THE MORNING GLORY.

[On being requested to give some Morning Glory seeds.]

The sunshine seems much brighter, And the heart is ever lighter, When the rays of sweet Aurora Gild the radiant morning glory With a splendor, such as heaven To few favorites has given Among the beautiful rare flowers. So plant these seeds with care, In a place well-chosen, where The first rays of the morning May kiss their bright adorning, And teach your heart to see The beauties there may be In the early morning hours.

RYE.

When pollen-dust from fields of rye Floats out on the dews of even, And stars of June bedeck the sky Of mild and cloudless heaven, 'Tis ecstasy to linger near The odor-laden quivers, Whose lance-like arrows then appear To be our pleasure-givers.

When Luna bright is wreathed in smiles, And breathes upon the flowers, A billowy greenness oft beguiles Our minds by magic powers; For like the waves of ocean grand When tempest winds are high, With speed sweep by the waves on land, In the fields of liquid rye.

Fragrant fields of beautiful June, Whose billowy, graceful green Is a mem'ry-gem that fades too soon From childhood's romantic scene, Sweet were my hours of ecstasy When by your side I was nigh; Joys I covet, long lost to me That came from sweet fields of rye.

COMMUNION WITH NATURE.

'Tis sweet to hold communion With Nature true and wild, And feel the thrill of gladness She breathes upon her child, When close upon her bosom We press the listening ear, And fancy that the minstrelsy Our raptured senses hear, Is sweeter than the chorus By angel choirs sung, Or richer than vibrations Of chords so deftly strung, That all their intonations Seem blended in one strain, By touch of fairy fingers Which enchant the sweet refrain.

The beauties of the sunset Upon the evening sky, When flecked with fleeting vapors, Detached and awry, Give colors that no artist Save God alone can show To eyes that seek such blendings, And hearts that long to know The hidden things in Nature Which ne'er can be revealed To those who find not heaven In mountain, sky, and field; For they who live the nearest To Nature's self shall find Joy boundless as the ocean, As pure and unconfined.

Deep in the leafy forest A thousand tones are heard,-- The laughing, dancing brooklet, The song of bright-winged bird, The buzz of bee on flower, The leaf by breezes fanned, The hum of tiny insect Whose feeble notes command The modulated heart-beat To know the great decree, That frees the mind from slavery And sets the spirit free, Through knowledge of those hidden things Which God only reveals To him who loves all nature, And for a brother feels.

The dearest and the sweetest Of all the charms on earth, Are those that link our natures To feelings that have birth When leaf and flower and fruitage Steal our being for an hour, And we are half unconscious Of some mysterious power, That leads us close to heaven, And points to joys supreme, Where fields and flowers and happiness Are not an idle dream, But a true and soothing heritage Whose limit has no end, Where ev'ry rock and tree and shrub Shall prove a trusted friend.

If heaven is not shadowed Upon our spirit mind, Through all its gorgeous tintings And colorings combined; If Nature has no language To charm the ear and eye, And brooks and birds and forests Afford no minstrelsy; If waving grain and orchards, Freighted with fragrance rare, Draw not the spirit heavenward And lift the soul in prayer; Then orisons are soulless Though voiced on bended knee, And small must be our knowledge Of the Great Deity.

MOUNTAIN BROOK.

Beneath the shade deep in a dell, Where fairy spirits ever dwell,-- Away from haunts of men, A living thing of godlike birth, By Nature's law springs from the earth To gladden vale and glen.

Ten thousand fairies clad in green Enliven the sequestered scene, With noiseless dance and mirth, And minstrelsy of heaven conspires With liquid laughs and wind-played lyres To charm the scenes of earth.

The rocks and trees bedecked with moss, The million leaves with shimmering gloss Drink from the dancing spray, Which rising from the dashing foam, Seeks its bright aerial home And greets the orb of day.

No discord here my spirit jars, No artful smile my comfort mars, For Nature's self is true; Here beauty, grace, and peace conspire To make my inmost soul desire Some heart with kindred view.

Who dwells in such companionship, Builds fountains whence the soul may sip Heaven's sweetest gift to man, Sees beauty reign as God designed, Has purer love for all mankind, And lives near Nature's plan.

Loved mountain brook, so pure, so true, I'd rather spend an hour with you, And harmonize my soul With the sweet melodies you sing, With all the joy your concerts bring, That sit where flowing bowl

And jocund laugh of merry crowd In accents wild, profane, and loud, Break on the midnight air; For you bring peace and joy and rest, Refreshment for a mind distressed, And banish grief and care.

When I shall sleep my final sleep, Fain would I rest where you will keep A tuneful voice for me; Then to my spirit will be given The foretaste of a promised heaven-- Nature's sweet harmony.

TO A MOUNTAIN BROOK.

Shy sylvan spirit singing so sweetly, Dancing to measures that flow with your song Frolic your fairy feet faultlessly, fleetly, As down the mountain vale haste you along.

Babbling buoyantly by banks and bushes, Laughingly onward you speed to the sea, While from your mossy sides, joyously gushes Fountains from Nature's bowl, healthful and free.

Naiads and Nymphs hold revels at midnight, Dancing to music that swells from your flow; Dryad and Faun peep out at the moonlight, Thro' rents in green curtains that over you grow.

Here would I pour my soul out in wooing The spirit that dwells in your charmed home; Here would I linger gladly, if knowing My waiting might lead it at last to come.

Let me while here with you catch the spirit Of peace and comfort abiding in you, Then will my Nature truly inherit A love for the beautiful, noble, and true.

THE STREAM'S STORY.

I sat me down in a forest old, Beside a low murmuring stream; I lent my ear to the tale it told, For 'twas more than fancy's dream;

It spoke of days when the earth was young, When it flowed more cheerfully, When its water sang the rocks among, As they danced down toward the sea.

"In the ancient days my banks were filled, Nor shrank I from heat or frost, For the shaded, moss-crowned earth then held The drops, so that none were lost.

"The old forest then stretched far away, And its sheltering arms embraced Sweet perfumed plants and flowerets gay, Whose lives long ago have ceased.

"For the sturdy woodman plied the blade And the forest soon lay low; Then the burning sun and the want of shade Soon shrank my full crystal flow.

"Now when the rain comes, my waters roar, And my spoils are sad to see, For the earth-vaults where I kept my store, Hold no surplus now for me.

"Man's greed for wealth has my beauty marred And robbed me of early joys, But I sing again, with hope restored, When I see the girls and boys

"Who come with their songs in merry May, O'er valley, hill, and plain, To plant young trees on this Arbor Day, So in joy I smile again."

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To wander all day, by a purling stream That flows through some mossy dell, And watch its silvery waters gleam, And list to its music's swell As it dashes down some wild cascade, On its race to the wide, wide sea, With sweeter strains than old Orpheus played, Is supreme delight to me.

THE SECOND SUNDAY IN MAY.

Softly the breezes dance o'er the meadows, Wafting the perfume of sweet-scented May; Flecked are the green fields with sunshine and shadows, Telling so gently of earth's perfect day.

From moss-covered rocks whereon we are seated, Nature spreads scenes such as art cannot yield; With flowers of rare beauty our vision is greeted, Our ears, with the bird-notes of forest and field.

Dogwood with tints from pink to pure whiteness, Columbine crimson with pinnacled sheen, Pinks of carnation, and orchards in brightness, Vie with the meadows of velvety green.

The bobolink chatters in notes of perfection, The oriole sings a love-song to his mate, The whippoorwill clings to his perch for protection, The crow laughs ha! ha! when the evening grows late.

Squirrel and humming-bird flit by like spirits, Jack-in-the-pulpit stands ready to preach, The roll of the anthem the wood-choir inherits, Surpasses the harmony mortals can reach.

The song of the bird-note, the hum of the bee, The tinkling of waters, the bursting of leaves, The perfume of flowers, the blossoming tree, Are sermons from Nature the pulpit ne'er gives.

My soul sings with these, with these has communion, They lift me in thought to realms pure and bright; They speak of a Nature with which to have union Dispels all my sorrows and gives me delight.

Every sigh of the breeze, every note of wild bird, Every plant that springs up from earth's fertile sod, Are sermons of eloquence when rightly heard, That soothe me and bring me nearer to God.

NATURE'S CHILD.

I would rather dwell with Nature And be her favored child, To love plant, tree, and creature That live in forest wild; And feel the satisfaction That I can understand The beauty and attraction Of motives, noble, grand, That fashioned for man's pleasure This brilliant world of ours, Than possess the jeweled treasure Of all earth's kingly powers.

LAKE GEORGE, N. Y.

Beautiful, beautiful Horicon! Over thy waters so blue, Sunshine and shadow in silence flit on, Painting fresh scenes on the ecstatic view.

Blue are the skies that kiss the green tops Of sentinel mountains grand, Pure are the waters descending in drops, Or rushing in torrents from mountain to strand.

Like emerald crowns thy islands rise, And mirrored back are doubly seen Gray rocks of the mountains, the cloud-flecked skies, Gorgeous adornments, and fringes of green.

Silent and wild are the fairy shores Save song of the warbling bird, Or the glen wherein the cataract roars, Or the pine tree's branch by strong breezes stirred.

When sunset purples the dark ravine And throws crimson on thy breast, Soft-tinged are the hues that e'er lie between Thy shores and the peaks that rise in the west.

I see in my fancy days long past, I hear the brave soldier's song, The bugle that summoned hosts at its blast, Whose notes died in echoes the green shores along.

I see in the past ten-thousand oars, And a thousand boats so grand, As they leave the marge of thy southern shores To meet the French foes of Montcalm's command.

I see Abercrombie grandly brave With his fifteen thousand men, Glide swiftly, silently over the wave To contest from which many came not again.

Beautiful, beautiful Horicon! How changed is the scene to-day, The pageant of war and carnage is gone Thy waters now bear the light-hearted and gay.

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Who loves devoutly Nature wild, And sees in her a Master's hand, Will seldom be a wayward child Though foul temptations round him stand. Magnetic forces draw him back From following low and slavish ways, His soul revolts at the attack That foe of Nature--Vice, displays.

THE THRUSH.

When on mountain road I travel, Stained with dust and dirt and gravel, In cool shade I sit me down; Oft I see among the bushes Feathered friends--shy brown thrushes, Sweetest singers of renown.

Smooth his coat though brown and dusty, His mellow voice is ever trusty And clear and soft and sweet; On the tree-top oft he's singing, In the woods his voice is ringing While hills his notes repeat.

I have heard him in the morning When the sun was just adorning Tops of tallest forest trees, Pour his soul of song so tender, That to God he seemed to render Thanksgiving harmonies.

Every feather he did quiver, As his song he would deliver In bursts so wild and grand, That creation's face would gladden As the air with music laden Seemed fraught with choral band.

Some notes that swelled his speckled breast Were like soft zephyrs from the west That fall on June-blown flowers; So full, so sweet, they lull the soul, And like a spirit voice control My reveries for hours.

Soulful song, enwrapped in feather, Harbinger of pleasant weather, Sing softly unto me. Your tuneful notes at morn and even Are antepasts of joys in heaven That bring felicity.

Attune your joyous song for me, And lift my soul that it may see The world in beauty bright; Sing on, sing on, until the wood Shall laugh aloud in merry mood, And sadness take her flight!

Sweet warbling bird in brown attire, Your notes of praise do me inspire With love for Nature wild; Your songs of joy so sweetly sung, By heart and throat divinely strung, Proclaim you Nature's child.

ROBIN REDBREAST.

Low and soft and plaintive, Now distant and now near, Is the voice of Robin Redbreast, That in the tree I hear.

Sometimes 'tis but a murmur, So gentle and so sweet, It sounds like a dying zephyr That echo doth repeat.

And then in bursts of music That make the forests ring, Comes the swelling, happy ditty His birdship loves to sing.

And the voice is so enchanting, So perfect and so clear, All earth stands still to listen, And the clouds bend low to hear.

Again he tunes his liquid note To winds in tree-tops sighing, Or to the sound of waters That o'er the rocks are playing.

The sprightly, sweet ventriloquist Deceives you as to distance, You sometimes think him far away Beyond alarm's resistance,

And then again, you think him near The place you are abiding; He's in the same place all the time, In covert he is hiding,

And telling you in measured notes His mate is yonder nesting, While in the shade of leafy tree Near by in song he's resting.

Had I so sweet a voice as his I'd carol all day long, Charm with my presence all mankind, And cheer them with my song.

The woods and fields should echo far My choicest minstrelsy, While earth and sky would both unite To join the revelry.

THE FARMER.

Of war and love some poets sing, And some of fame and glory, But few there are a tribute bring To him whose only story Is written on the sterile soil With hand of honest labor, Whose plow and hoe bespeak a toil More grand than gory sabre.

My muse will sing of such as these, And claim a wreath of laurel, To crown each sturdy Hercules Whose only wish to quarrel, Is with the forest and the field To make them rich and fairer, To make old mother earth to yield Her fruits and flowers e'en rarer.

Let merchants in the busy marts Think farmers are mere cattle, But they who know the farmers' hearts And of his earnest battle With thorns and thistles scattered wide, Like earth's destructive Neros, Well know they are our country's pride-- Our Nation's greatest heroes.

The lily-fingered, pale-faced men Who live by "A Profession," Need not despise the farmer, when He makes some slight digression Upon what they call etiquette; For in his heart he's civil; Though rough his hand, his brow asweat, His heart is free from evil.

He toils from early morn till night, Yet he is "Independent;" For Nature's God defends the right, And holds a crown resplendent To place upon His honored child Whose life is heavy laden, But keeps a spirit undefiled To enter into Eden.

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