Page:Selections from the American poets (IA selectamerpoet00bryarich).pdf/144
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Charles Sprague.
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sunAslant the wooded slope at evening goes;Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in;Mountain, and shatter'd cliff, and sunny vale,The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,In many a lazy syllabic, repeatingTheir old poetical legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit that doth fillThe world; and, in these wayward days of youth,My busy fancy oft imbodies it,As the bright image of the light and beautyThat dwell in nature, of the heavenly formsWe worship in our dreams, and the soft huesThat stain the wild-bird's wing, and flush the cloudsWhen the sun sets. Within her eyeThe heaven of April, with its changing light,And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,And on her lip the rich red rose. Her hairIs like the summer tresses of the trees,When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheekBlushes the richness of an autumn sky,With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,It is so like the gentle air of Spring,As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comesFull of their fragrance, that it is a joyTo have it round us, and her silver voiceIs the rich music of a summer bird,Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
THE FORCE OF CURIOSITY.
How swells my theme! how vain my power I find,To track the windings of the curious mind;Let aught be hid, though useless, nothing boots,Straightway it must be pluck'd up by the roots.