Page:Selections from the American poets (IA selectamerpoet00bryarich).pdf/273

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I. M‘Lellan, Jr.
269
To the red roses and the herbs, doth findNo eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls.I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrushAnd the green, roving linnet are at rest,And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceasedTheir noisy note, and folded up their wings.
 Far up some brook's still course, whose current minesThe forest's blacken'd roots, and whose green margeIs seldom visited by human foot,The lonely heron sits, and harshly breaksThe Sabbath silence of the wilderness:And you may find her by some reedy pool,Or brooding gloomily on the time-stain'd rock,Beside some misty and far-reaching lake.
 Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom,Gray watcher of the waters! Thou art kingOf the blue lake; and all the wing'd kindDo fear the echo of thine angry cry.How bright thy savage eye! Thou lookest down,And seest the shining fishes as they glide;And, poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beakSwift as an arrow strikes its roving prey.Ofttimes I see thee, through the curling mist,Dart like a spectre of the night, and hearThy strange, bewildering call, like the wild screamOf one whose life is perishing in the sea.
 And now, wouldst thou, oh man! delight the earWith earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eyeWith beautiful creations? Then pass forth,And find them mid those many-colour'd birdsThat fill the glowing woods. The richest huesLie in their splendid plumage, and their tonesAre sweeter than the music of the lute,Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gushSo thrillingly from Beauty's ruby lip.

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