WILLIAM TELL. There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the wilding bee hums merrily by. The clouds are at play in the azure space, And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale. There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles WILLIAM TELL. CHAINS may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee, That creed is written on the untrampled snow, Thundered by torrents which no power can hold, Save that of God, when he sends forth his cold, And breathed by winds that through the free heaven blow. Thou, while thy prison walls were dark around, Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught, And to thy brief captivity was brought A vision of thy Switzerland unbound. The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. ALL day, from shrubs by our summer dwelling, A merry warbler, he chides the blossoms, The blue-bird chants, from the elm's long branches, Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city, Though many a flower in the wood is waking, She pushes upward the sward already, No lays so joyous as these are warbled Yet these sweet lays of the early season Are only sweet when we fondly listen, AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. There is no glory in star or blossom Till breathed with joy as they wander by. Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows, I SAT me down upon a green bank-side, Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river, Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide, Like parting friends who linger while they sever; Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy. 311 Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow Or the fine frost work which young winter freezes, From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded, Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes unheeded. The humbird shook his sun-touched wings around, The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat; The antic squirrel capered on the ground Where lichens made a carpet for his feet: Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses, Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses, Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden Shining beneath dropt lids the evening of her wedding. The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, The winding of the merry locust's horn, The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom: Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, Oh! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling. |