The chattering jay has ceased his
The noisy robin sings no more—
The crow, his mountain haunt within,
Dreams ’mid the forest’s surly roar:
Good night—good night.
The sunlit cloud floats dim and
The dew is falling soft and still;
The mist hangs trembling o’er the vale,
And silence broods o’er yonder mill:
The rose, so ruddy in the light,
Bends on its stem all rayless now,
And by its side the lily white
A sister shadow, seems to bow:
Good night—good night.
The bat may wheel on silent wing—
The fox his guilty vigils keep—
The boding owl his dirges sing;
But love and innocence will sleep:
Good night—good night!
[Illustration: The Mississippi]
Far in the West, where snow-capt
Like marble shafts beneath Heaven’s stooping dome,
And sunset’s dreamy curtain drapes the skies,
As if enchantment there would build her home—
O’er wood and wave, from haunts of men away—
From out the glen, all trembling like a child,
A babbling streamlet comes as if to play—
Albeit the scene is savage, lone and wild.
Here at the mountain’s foot, that infant wave
’Mid bowering leaves doth hide its rustic birth—
Here learns the rock and precipice to brave—
And go the Monarch River of the Earth!
Far, far from hence, its bosom deep and wide,
Bears the proud steamer on its fiery wing—
Along its banks, bright cities rise in pride,
And o’er its breast their gorgeous image fling.
The Mississippi needs no herald now—
But here within this glen unknown to fame,
It flows content—a bubble on its brow,
A leaf upon its breast—without a name!
[Illustration: Banks of the Mississippi]
Strange contrasts here—for
on the glacier’s height,
The tempest raves, and arrowy lightnings leap—
Yet deep beneath, the wild flowers lone and light,
On slender stems in breezeless silence sleep.
Skyward the racing eagles wildly fling
Their savage clamor to the echoing dell—
While sheltered deep, the bee with folded wing,
Voluptuous slumbers in his fragrant cell.
Around, the splintered rocks are heaped to heaven,
With grisly caverns yawning wide between,
As if the Titans there had battle given,
And left their ruin written on the scene!
Yet o’er these ghastly shapes, soft lichens wind,
And timid daisies droop, and tranquil flowers
A robe of many-colored beauty, bind,
As if some vagrant fairy claimed these bowers.