Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont. And it is pleasant, when the noisy streams Are just set free, and milder suns melt off The plashy snow, save only the firm drift In the deep glen or the close shade of pines,'Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smoke Roll up among the maples of the hill, Where the shrill sound of youthful voices wakes The shriller echo, as the clear pure lymph, That from the wounded trees, in twinkling drops, Falls, mid the golden brightness of the morn, Is gathered in with brimming pails, and oft, Wielded by sturdy hands, the stroke of axe Makes the woods ring. Along the quiet air, Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds, Such as you see in summer, and the winds Scarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft, Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone oft Muster their wrath again, and rapid clouds Shade heaven, and bounding on the frozen earth Shall fall their volleyed stores, rounded like hail And white like snow, and the loud North again Shall buffet the vexed forest in his rage. THE WEST WIND. BENEATH the forest's skirt I rest, Whose branching pines rise dark and high, And hear the breezes of the West Among the thread-like foliage sigh. Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of woe? To meet thy kiss at morning hours? And lo thy glorious realm outspread- And there the full broad river runs, Have made thee faint beneath their heat. Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love; The sun in his blue realm above Smooths a bright path when thou art here. In lawns the murmuring bee is heard, |