THE RIVER OTTER
107
But in her own loveliness Nature is glad,
And little she cares for man's smile or his frown;
In the robes of her royalty still she is clad,
Though his eye may behold not her sceptre or crown!
And over our beautiful Otter the trees
Swayed lightly as now in the frolicsome breeze;
And the tremulous violet lifted an eye
As blue as its own to the laughing blue sky.
The harebell trembled on its stem
Down where the rushing waters gleam,
A sapphire on the broidered hem
Of some fair Naiad of the stream.
The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold,
Held up their chalices of gold
To catch the sunshine and the dew,
Gayly as those that bloom for you.
And deep within the forest shade,
Where broadest noon mere twilight made,
Ten thousand small, sweet censers swung,
And tiny bells by zephyrs rung,
Made tinkling music till the day
In solemn splendor died away.
The woods were full of praise and prayer,
Although no human tongue was there;
For every pine and hemlock sung
The grand cathedral aisles among,
And every flower that gemmed the sod
Looked up and whispered, "Thou art God."
The birds sung as they sing to-day,
A song of love and joy alway.
The brown thrush from its golden throat
Poured out its long, melodious note;
The pigeons cooed; the veery threw
Its mellow thrill from spray to spray;
The wild night-hawk its trumpet blew,
And little she cares for man's smile or his frown;
In the robes of her royalty still she is clad,
Though his eye may behold not her sceptre or crown!
And over our beautiful Otter the trees
Swayed lightly as now in the frolicsome breeze;
And the tremulous violet lifted an eye
As blue as its own to the laughing blue sky.
The harebell trembled on its stem
Down where the rushing waters gleam,
A sapphire on the broidered hem
Of some fair Naiad of the stream.
The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold,
Held up their chalices of gold
To catch the sunshine and the dew,
Gayly as those that bloom for you.
And deep within the forest shade,
Where broadest noon mere twilight made,
Ten thousand small, sweet censers swung,
And tiny bells by zephyrs rung,
Made tinkling music till the day
In solemn splendor died away.
The woods were full of praise and prayer,
Although no human tongue was there;
For every pine and hemlock sung
The grand cathedral aisles among,
And every flower that gemmed the sod
Looked up and whispered, "Thou art God."
The birds sung as they sing to-day,
A song of love and joy alway.
The brown thrush from its golden throat
Poured out its long, melodious note;
The pigeons cooed; the veery threw
Its mellow thrill from spray to spray;
The wild night-hawk its trumpet blew,
