Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/235
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THE SONG OF THE STREAMS.
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Where the green trees wave and the fountains lave
We dance to a merry tune,
When beauty showers on the fleeting hours
The light of the joyous noon;
And Nature's smiles with the sweetest wiles
Of sweetest song we woo,
When the leaves are tinged and the bright flowers fringed
With the sun's own golden hue;
While choral notes from tiny throats
Of the woodland minstrels swell,
And come to the ear all soft and clear
As a lingering, heaven-toned spell.
We dance to a merry tune,
When beauty showers on the fleeting hours
The light of the joyous noon;
And Nature's smiles with the sweetest wiles
Of sweetest song we woo,
When the leaves are tinged and the bright flowers fringed
With the sun's own golden hue;
While choral notes from tiny throats
Of the woodland minstrels swell,
And come to the ear all soft and clear
As a lingering, heaven-toned spell.
When childhood strays in the sunny days
By one flowing, silver tide,
We fondly sing to the gentle thing
A song that he lists with pride.
Then visions rise to the longing eyes
Of the lovely cherub boy,
As our tones impart to his dreaming heart
Bright hopes of the future's joy;
But oft he hears in his after years
Our strains to his memory come,
When deep griefs rest in his aching breast,
Where the voice of hope is dumb.
By one flowing, silver tide,
We fondly sing to the gentle thing
A song that he lists with pride.
Then visions rise to the longing eyes
Of the lovely cherub boy,
As our tones impart to his dreaming heart
Bright hopes of the future's joy;
But oft he hears in his after years
Our strains to his memory come,
When deep griefs rest in his aching breast,
Where the voice of hope is dumb.
And oft we breathe of a bright, bright wreath
When the poet, wandering, dreams,
Where all is mute save the sweet bird's lute
And the song of the silver streams.
And the hoary sage in the path of age
Will list to our murmurs sweet,
And commune oft with our voices soft
Away in some lone retreat.
We bring relief to the heart of grief
When its woes to us are given,
For we whisper tales in the silent vales
That lead the soul to heaven.
When the poet, wandering, dreams,
Where all is mute save the sweet bird's lute
And the song of the silver streams.
And the hoary sage in the path of age
Will list to our murmurs sweet,
And commune oft with our voices soft
Away in some lone retreat.
We bring relief to the heart of grief
When its woes to us are given,
For we whisper tales in the silent vales
That lead the soul to heaven.
We bound away, and our roundelay
With the light-winged zephyr trills;
We joy to leap from the sunny steep
And dance on the distant hills.
Away, away! we are glad and gay
As the brightest things of earth;
No voice have we but the voice of glee—
'Tis the music of Nature's mirth.
With the light-winged zephyr trills;
We joy to leap from the sunny steep
And dance on the distant hills.
Away, away! we are glad and gay
As the brightest things of earth;
No voice have we but the voice of glee—
'Tis the music of Nature's mirth.