140 WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. [1830-40. Out beneath thy noontide sky ! On a shady slope I lie, Giving fancy ample play : And there's not more blest than I, One of Adam's race to-day. Out beneath thy noontide sky ! Earth, how beautiful ! — how clear Of cloud or mist the atmosphere ! What a glory greets the eye ! What a calm, or quiet stir, Steals o'er Nature's worshiper — Silent, yet so eloquent. That we feel 'tis heaven-sent — Waking thoughts that long have slumber'd Passion-dimm'd and earth-encumber'd — Bearing soul and sense away, To revel in the Perfect Day That 'waits us, when we shall for aye Discard this darksome dust — this prison- house of clay ! Out beneath thy evening sky ! Not a breeze that wanders by But hath swept the green earth's bosom — Rifling the rich grape-vine blossom, Dallying with the simplest flower In mossy nook and rosy bower — To the perfum'd green-house straying, And with rich exotics playing — Then, unsated, sweeping over Banks of thyme, and fields of clover ! Out beneath thy evening sky ! Groups of cliildren caper by, Crown'd with flowers, and rush along With joyous laugh, and shout, and song. Flashing eye, and I'adiant cheek, Spirits all unsunn'd bespeak. They are in Life's May-month hours — And those wild bursts of joy, what are they but Life's flowers ? Would that thou couldst last for aye, Merry, ever-merry INIay ! Made of sun-gleams, shade and showers. Burning buds, and breathing flowers ; Dripping-lock'd, and rosy-vested, Violet-slippered, rainbow-crested ; Girdled with the eglantine, Festoon'd with the dewy vine : Merry, ever-merry May, Would that thou couldst last for aye ! THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST. The Mothers of our Forest-Land! Stout-hearted dames were they ; With nerve to wield the battle-brand. And join the border-fray. Our rough land had no braver, In its days of blood and strife — Aye ready for severest toil, Aye free to peril life. The mothers of our Forest-Land ! On old Kan-tuc-kee's soil, How shared they, with each dauntless band, War's tempest and Life's toil ! They shrank not from the foeman — They quailed not in the fight — But cheered their husbands through the day, And soothed them through the night. The Mothers of our Forest-Land ! Their bosoms pillowed men! And proud were they by such to stand, In hammock, fort, or glen. To load the sure old rifle — To run the leaden ball — To watch a battling husband's place. And fill it should he fall. The Mothers of our Forest-Land ! Such were their daily deeds. Their monument ! — where does it stand? Their epitaph ! — who reads ? No braver dames had Sparta, No nobler matrons Rome — Yet who or lauds or honors them. E'en in their own green home !
