PART II.

THE MEETING-PLACE OF OLD.

Glides the brooklet through the rushes, Now with dipping boughs at play, Now with quicker music-gushes Where the pebbles chafe the way.

Lonely from the lonely meadows Slopes the undulating hill; And the slowness of its shadows But at sunset gains the rill:

Not a sign of man's existence, Not a glimpse of man's abode, Yet the church-spire in the distance Links the solitude with God.

All so quiet, all so glowing, In the golden hush of noon; Nature's still heart overflowing From the breathless lips of June.

Song itself the bird forsaketh, Save from wooded deeps remote, Mellowly and singly breaketh, Mellowly, the cuckoo's note.

'Tis the scene where youth beheld thee; 'Tis the trysting-place of yore; Yes, my mighty grief hath spell'd thee, Blooming--living--mine once more!