Poems (May)/Forest scene
FOREST SCENE.
I know a forest vast and old,
A shade so deep, so darkly green,
That morning sends her shaft of gold
In vain to pierce its leafy screen.
I know a brake where sleeps the fawn,
The soft-eyed fawn, through noon's repose,
For noon with all the calm of dawn
Lies hushed beneath those dewy boughs.
A shade so deep, so darkly green,
That morning sends her shaft of gold
In vain to pierce its leafy screen.
I know a brake where sleeps the fawn,
The soft-eyed fawn, through noon's repose,
For noon with all the calm of dawn
Lies hushed beneath those dewy boughs.
Oh! proudly there the forest kings
Their banners lift on vale and mount;
And cool and fresh the wild grass springs
By lonely path, by sylvan fount;
There o'er the fair leaf-laden rill
The laurel sheds its clustered bloom,
And throned upon the rock-wreathed hill,
The rowan waves his scarlet plume.
Their banners lift on vale and mount;
And cool and fresh the wild grass springs
By lonely path, by sylvan fount;
There o'er the fair leaf-laden rill
The laurel sheds its clustered bloom,
And throned upon the rock-wreathed hill,
The rowan waves his scarlet plume.
No huntsman's call, no baying hound,
Scares from his rest the light-limbed stag,
But following faint his airy bound
Glad echo leaps from crag to crag;
From morn till eve the wood-birds sing,
And, by the wild wave's glittering play,
The pheasant plumes her glossy wing,
The doe lies couched at close of day.
Scares from his rest the light-limbed stag,
But following faint his airy bound
Glad echo leaps from crag to crag;
From morn till eve the wood-birds sing,
And, by the wild wave's glittering play,
The pheasant plumes her glossy wing,
The doe lies couched at close of day.
From slippery ledge, from moss-grown rock,
Dash the swift waters at a bound,
And from the foam that veils the shock
Floats every wavelet sparkle-crowned.
By brake, and dell, and lawny glade,
O'er gnarled root, o'er mossy stone,
Beneath the forest's emerald shade
The brook winds murmuring, chiding on.
Dash the swift waters at a bound,
And from the foam that veils the shock
Floats every wavelet sparkle-crowned.
By brake, and dell, and lawny glade,
O'er gnarled root, o'er mossy stone,
Beneath the forest's emerald shade
The brook winds murmuring, chiding on.
Far floating o'er its limpid breast
The lily sends her petals fair,
And couched beside her regal crest
The balm-flower scents the drowsy air.
From spray and vine, o'er rocky ledge
Hang blossoms wild of scarlet dye,
And on the curved and sanded edge
The pink-lined shells, wave-polished, lie.
The lily sends her petals fair,
And couched beside her regal crest
The balm-flower scents the drowsy air.
From spray and vine, o'er rocky ledge
Hang blossoms wild of scarlet dye,
And on the curved and sanded edge
The pink-lined shells, wave-polished, lie.
There wakes no tone of idle mirth
Amid those shadows vast and dim,
But from the gentle lips of earth,
How soft and low her forest hymn!
How soft and low where stirs the wind
Through the dark arches of the wood,
Where, mass on mass, the boughs entwined,
Hang whispering o'er the chiming flood!
Amid those shadows vast and dim,
But from the gentle lips of earth,
How soft and low her forest hymn!
How soft and low where stirs the wind
Through the dark arches of the wood,
Where, mass on mass, the boughs entwined,
Hang whispering o'er the chiming flood!
When twilight skies look faintly down,
When noon lies hushed on leaf and spray,
When midnight casts her silver crown
Before the throne of god-like day,
There still to earth's perpetual choir
The same sweet harmony is given:
For angels wake her sacred lyre,
And every chord is strung by Heaven.
When noon lies hushed on leaf and spray,
When midnight casts her silver crown
Before the throne of god-like day,
There still to earth's perpetual choir
The same sweet harmony is given:
For angels wake her sacred lyre,
And every chord is strung by Heaven.