Neglected minstrel of the single song,
Piping at twilight through the russet fields,
Thy two soft silver notes, one short, one long,
Rich with the careless joy that nature yields,
Rise from the stubble round the well-stocked fields,
Far from the chattering flock or warbling throng:
American! All hail, my countryman!
Thy treble, sweet or shrill, delights my ear;
A song of freedom ere our race began,
A challenger of conquest loud and clear;
Bespeaking nature pure as God’s first plan,
And pride and peace, and quiet ever dear:
To a Chrysanthemum.
Thou beauteous flower, with heart of gold,
Bravely defying winter’s cold,
When dreary north winds shrilly whistle
Over the desolate fields of thistle;
Thou comest to bless in beauty’s ways,
With memories of summer days,
When at the touch of gentle showers,
Decked were the fields in myriad flowers;
Yet more than all I praise to-day
This blossom bright,
Since on her breast it lay
Only last night.
JOHN ANGUS THOMPSON.
Wesleyan Literary Monthly
My jewels are the drops of dew
That sparkle on the grass,
Or break into a thousand bits
When ruthless footsteps pass.
My gold bedecks the sunlit cloud,
Untouched by human hand;
My silver is the sleeping sea,
Unshadowed by the land.
My friend is every wooded hill,
And every singing brook;
For they are always true to me,
And wear a kindly look
And yet how few would ever think
To count these treasures o’er;
But, dreaming oft of Satan’s gold,
Would ask kind Heaven for more.
Co-heirs of Nature all may be,
Although of humble birth;
And yet, the miser hugs his gold,
While poor men own the earth.
WILBUR DANIEL SPENCER.
Dartmouth Literary Monthly,
Rough pasture where the blackberries grow!—
It bears upon its churlish face
No sign of beauty, art or grace;
Not here the silvery coverts glow
That April and the angler know.
There sleeps no brooklet in this wild,
Smooth-resting on its mosses sleek,
Like loving lips upon a cheek
Soft as the face of maid or child—
Just boulders, helter-skelter piled.
Ungenerous nature but endows
These acres with the stumps and stocks
Which should be trees, with rude, gray rocks;
Over these humps and hollows browse,
Daily, the awkward, shambling cows.
Here on the right, a straggling wall
Of crazy, granite stones, and there
A rotten pine-trunk, brown and bare,
A mass of huge brakes, rank and tall—
The burning blue sky over all.