Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Song of the Streams
The Song of the Streams.
We trill a hymn to the evening dim, When the golden sunset dies,And the sweet-voiced praise of the song we raise Ascends to the starry skies.We lull to rest on the earth's green breast The blushing, bright eyed flowers,Where Nature weaves, with her festooned leaves, Her home in the summer bowers.Our strains are heard when the forest bird No more to the echo sings,While the lover's tale in the silent vale To the fond heart rapture brings.
When the fairy queen to the woodland green Hath gone with her maidens gay,To dance awhile in the silver smile Of the bright moon's mystic ray.They one and all in their forest hall, Whose lamps are the stars above,Glide round and round o'er the dewy ground, Like a dream of joy and love;And ours the song of the unseen throng In their wanton mazy whirls,As they lightly pass o'er the trembling grass, Adorned with its liquid pearls.
When the golden rays of the orient blaze Come over the purple hills,And sunshine looks on the dancing brooks, And smiles to the laughing rills,Our lay ascends till its music blends With the lark's song sweet and rare,Till wafted far, where the morning star Shines dim through the crystal air.Then the fair light beams till the matin dreams Of the silken blossoms die,As the wild bee's hum and the zephyrs come, And mirthfully murmur by.
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.
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.
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.
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. We love to sing to the fair young spring In the glen and the forest dim,And the year's bright prime, and the autumn time, Are themes for our choral hymn.