Green Fields and Running Brooks | Page 2

drifts on a helpless cruise,?Or wildly oars the air,
As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook--?The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed--?Swings pivoting about, with wary look?Of low and cunning greed.
Till, filled with other thought, I turn again?To where the pathway enters in a realm?Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign?Of towering oak and elm.
A puritanic quiet here reviles?The almost whispered warble from the hedge,?And takes a locust's rasping voice and files?The silence to an edge.
In such a solitude my somber way?Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom?Of his own shadows--till the perfect day?Bursts into sudden bloom,
And crowns a long, declining stretch of space,?Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled,?And where the valley's dint in Nature's face?Dimples a smiling world.
And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled,?I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams,?Where, like a gem in costly setting held,?The old log cabin gleams.

O darling Pathway! lead me bravely on?Adown your valley way, and run before?Among the roses crowding up the lawn?And thronging at the door,--
And carry up the echo there that shall?Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay?The household out to greet the prodigal?That wanders home to-day.
ON THE BANKS O' DEER CRICK.
On the banks o' Deer Crick! There's the place fer me!--?Worter slidin' past ye jes as clair as it kin be:--?See yer shadder in it, and the shadder o' the sky,?And the shadder o' the buzzard as he goes a-lazein' by;?Shadder o' the pizen-vines, and shadder o' the trees--?And I purt'-nigh said the shadder o' the sunshine and the breeze! Well--I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea:?On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me!
On the banks o' Deer Crick--mild er two from town--?'Long up where the mill-race comes a-loafin' down,--?Like to git up in there--'mongst the sycamores--?And watch the worter at the dam, a-frothin' as she pours: Crawl out on some old log, with my hook and line,?Where the fish is jes so thick you kin see 'em shine?As they flicker round yer bait, coaxin' you to jerk,?Tel yer tired ketchin' of 'em, mighty nigh, as work!
On the banks o' Deer Crick!--Allus my delight?Jes to be around there--take it day er night!--?Watch the snipes and killdees foolin' half the day--?Er these-'ere little worter-bugs skootin' ever'way!--?Snakefeeders glancin' round, er dartin' out o' sight;?And dew-fall, and bullfrogs, and lightnin'-bugs at night-- Stars up through the tree-tops--er in the crick below,--?And smell o' mussrat through the dark clean from the old b'y-o!
Er take a tromp, some Sund'y, say, 'way up to "Johnson's Hole," And find where he's had a fire, and hid his fishin' pole; Have yer "dog-leg," with ye and yer pipe and "cut-and-dry"-- Pocketful o' corn-bred, and slug er two o' rye,--?Soak yer hide in sunshine and waller in the shade--?Like the Good Book tells us--"where there're none to make afraid!" Well!--I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea--?On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me!
A DITTY OF NO TONE.
Piped to the Spirit of John Keats.
I.
Would that my lips might pour out in thy praise?A fitting melody--an air sublime,--?A song sun-washed and draped in dreamy haze--?The floss and velvet of luxurious rhyme:?A lay wrought of warm languors, and o'er-brimmed?With balminess, and fragrance of wild flowers?Such as the droning bee ne'er wearies of--?Such thoughts as might be hymned?To thee from this midsummer land of ours?Through shower and sunshine blent for very love.
II.
Deep silences in woody aisles wherethrough?Cool paths go loitering, and where the trill?Of best-remembered birds hath something new?In cadence for the hearing--lingering still?Through all the open day that lies beyond;?Reaches of pasture-lands, vine-wreathen oaks,?Majestic still in pathos of decay,--?The road--the wayside pond?Wherein the dragonfly an instant soaks?His filmy wing-tips ere he flits away.
III.
And I would pluck from out the dank, rich mould,?Thick-shaded from the sun of noon, the long?Lithe stalks of barley, topped with ruddy gold,?And braid them in the meshes of my song;?And with them I would tangle wheat and rye,?And wisps of greenest grass the katydid?Ere crept beneath the blades of, sulkily,?As harvest-hands went by;?And weave of all, as wildest fancy bid,?A crown of mingled song and bloom for thee.
A WATER-COLOR.
Low hidden in among the forest trees?An artist's tilted easel, ankle-deep?In tousled ferns and mosses, and in these?A fluffy water-spaniel, half asleep?Beside a sketch-book and a fallen hat--?A little wicker flask tossed into that.
A sense of utter carelessness and grace?Of pure abandon in the slumb'rous scene,--?As if the June, all hoydenish of face,?Had romped herself to sleep there on the green,?And brink and sagging bridge and sliding stream?Were just romantic parcels of her dream.
THE CYCLONE.
So lone I stood, the very trees seemed drawn?In conference with themselves.--Intense--intense?Seemed everything;--the summer splendor on?The sight,--magnificence!
A babe's life might not lighter fail and die?Than failed the sunlight--Though the hour was noon,?The palm of midnight might not