Green Fields and Running Brooks | Page 2

hands:
Or, the path climbs a boulder--wades a slough--
Or, rollicking

through buttercups and flags,
Goes gaily dancing o'er a deep bayou

On old tree-trunks and snags:
Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool
Upon a bridge the stream
itself has made,
With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool
That
its foundation laid.
I pause a moment here to bend and muse,
With dreamy eyes, on my
reflection, where
A boat-backed bug 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