Ballads | Page 7

brain,

And Heaven, it seemeth near;
Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time,
The
blossoming time of the year?
SUMMER HOURS.
It is the year's high noon,
The earth sweet incense yields,
And o'er
the fresh, green fields
Bends the clear sky of June.
I leave the crowded streets,
The hum of busy life,
Its clamor and its
strife,
To breathe thy perfumed sweets.
O rare and golden hours!
The bird's melodious song,
Wavelike, is

borne along
Upon a strand of flowers.
I wander far away,
Where, through the forest trees,
Sports the cool
summer breeze,
In wild and wanton play.
A patriarchal elm
Its stately form uprears,
Which twice a hundred
years
Has ruled this woodland realm.
I sit beneath its shade,
And watch, with careless eye,
The brook that
babbles by,
And cools the leafy glade.
In truth I wonder not,
That in the ancient days
The temples of God's
praise
Were grove and leafy grot.
The noblest ever planned,
With quaint device and rare,
By man, can
ill compare
With these from God's own hand.
Pilgrim with way-worn feet,
Who, treading life's dull round,
No
true repose hast found,
Come to this green retreat.
For bird, and flower, and tree,
Green fields, and woodland wild,

Shall bear, with voices mild,
Sweet messages to thee.
JUNE.
Throw open wide your golden gates,
O poet-landed month of June,

And waft me, on your spicy breath,
The melody of birds in tune.
O fairest palace of the three,
Wherein Queen Summer holdeth sway,

I gaze upon your leafy courts
From out the vestibule of May.
I fain would tread your garden walks,
Or in your shady bowers
recline;
Then open wide your golden gates,
And make them mine,
and make them mine.
LITTLE CHARLIE.

A VIOLET grew by the river-side,
And gladdened all hearts with its
bloom;
While over the fields, on the scented air,
It breathed a rich
perfume.
But the clouds grew dark in the angry sky,
And its portals
were opened wide;
And the heavy rain beat down the flower
That
grew by the river-side.
Not far away in a pleasant home,
There lived a little boy,
Whose
cheerful face and childish grace
Filled every heart with joy.
He
wandered one day to the river's verge,
With no one near to save;

And the heart that we loved with a boundless love
Was stilled in the
restless wave.
The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes,
And we bade farewell to joy;

For our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tie
To the grave of the
little boy.
The birds still sing in the leafy tree
That shadows the
open door;
We heed them not, for we think of the voice
That we
shall hear no more.
We think of him at eventide,
And gaze on his vacant chair
With a
longing heart that will scarce believe
That Charlie is not there.
We
seem to hear his ringing laugh,
And his bounding step at the door;

But, alas! there comes the sorrowful thought,
We shall never hear
them more!
We shall walk sometimes to his little grave,
In the pleasant summer
hours;
We will speak his name in a softened voice,
And cover his
grave with flowers;
We will think of him in his heavenly home,--
In
his heavenly home so fair;
And we will trust with a hopeful trust

That we shall meet him there.
THE WHIPPOORWILL AND I.
IN the hushed hours of night, when the air quite still,
I hear the
strange cry of the lone whippoorwill,
Who Chants, without ceasing,
that wonderful trill,

Of which the sole burden is still,

"Whip-poor-Will."
And why should I whip him? Strange visitant,
Has he been playing
truant this long summer day?
I listened a moment; more clear and
more shrill
Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."
But what has poor Will done? I ask you once more;
I'll whip him,
don't fear, if you'll tell me what for.
I paused for an answer; o'er
valley and hill
Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried,
"Whip-poor-Will."
Has he come to your dwelling, by night or by day,
And snatched the
young birds from their warm nest away?
I paused for an answer; o'er
valley and hill
Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried,
"Whip-poor-Will."
Well, well, I can hear you, don't have any fears,
I can hear what is
constantly dinned in my ears.
The obstinate bird, with his wonderful
trill,
Still made but one answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will."
But what HAS poor Will done? I prithee explain;
I'm out of all
patience, don't mock me again.
The obstinate bird, with his wonderful
trill,
Still made the same answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will."
Well, have your own way, then; but if you won't tell,
I'll shut down
the window, and bid you farewell;
But of one thing be sure, I won't
whip him until
You give me some reason for whipping poor Will.
I listened a moment, as if for reply,
But nothing was heard but the
bird's mocking cry.
I caught the faint echo from valley and hill;
It
breathed the same burden, that strange "Whip-poor-Will."
CARVING A NAME.
I wrote my name upon the sand,
And trusted it would stand for aye;


But, soon, alas! the refluent sea
Had washed my feeble lines away.
I carved my name upon the wood,
And, after years, returned