THE VALLEY BROOK. FRESH from the fountains of the wood Flushed with the morning's ruddy flame. The air was fresh and soft and sweet; The slopes in spring's new verdure lay, And wet with dew-drops at my feet Bloomed the young violets of May. No sound of busy life was heard I traced that rivulet's winding way; "Ah, happy valley stream!" I said, "Calm glides thy wave amid the flowers, Whose fragrance round thy path is shed Through all the joyous summer hours. "O, could my years, like thine, be passed But what new echoes greet my ear? I looked; the widening vale betrayed Ah! why should I, I thought with shame, When even this stream without a name No longer let me shun my part Amid the busy scenes of life, But with a warm and generous heart JOHN HOWARD BRYANT. AFTON WATER. FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes; Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for bear; I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow! There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes; Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. ROBERT BURNS. THE SHADED WATER. WHEN that my mood is sad, and in the noise I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys It is a quiet glen, as you may see, Shut in from all intrusion by the trees, That spread their giant branches, broad and free, The silent growth of many centuries; And make a hallowed time for hapless moods, A sabbath of the woods. Few know its quiet shelter, none, like me, And listening as the voiceless leaves respire, When the far-traveling breeze, done wandering, Rests here his weary wing. And all the day, with fancies ever new, And sweet companions from their boundless store, Of merry elves bespangled all with dew, Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore, Watching their wild but unobtrusive play, I fling the hours away. |