The Twin Pines.
21
"Where'er the wild bird sings, as now
Upon your top, his clearest strains,
Oh, springs there not from root to bough
Deep joy within your wooded veins?
And ever as that sweetest song,
The shout of childhood's voice is heard,
Say, as the echo thrills along
Are not your tenderest pulses stirred?
Upon your top, his clearest strains,
Oh, springs there not from root to bough
Deep joy within your wooded veins?
And ever as that sweetest song,
The shout of childhood's voice is heard,
Say, as the echo thrills along
Are not your tenderest pulses stirred?
"The fountain throwing playfully
Its sparkling burden in your sight,
The sunrise tinting earth and sky
With heaven's own welcome glorious light,
The thunder cloud, the lightning's dart,
The flowers that blossom at your foot,
Methinks these all should move your heart
To rapture, though the voice be mute.
Its sparkling burden in your sight,
The sunrise tinting earth and sky
With heaven's own welcome glorious light,
The thunder cloud, the lightning's dart,
The flowers that blossom at your foot,
Methinks these all should move your heart
To rapture, though the voice be mute.
"'Twere sweet to fancy that ye love
And share in all the joys I see,
But sweeter still to seek and prove
The blessedness of sympathy—
In hours when sorrow bows the head,
And blights the face of all below,
We long for frienship's aid to shed
Its precious light o'er human woe.
And share in all the joys I see,
But sweeter still to seek and prove
The blessedness of sympathy—
In hours when sorrow bows the head,
And blights the face of all below,
We long for frienship's aid to shed
Its precious light o'er human woe.
