And is there not some balm, I cried,
’Mid nature’s boundless wealth?
“Behold”—a gentle voice replied—
“Behold the Fount of health!”
Just then a torrent met my eye,
Fresh from the rock it burst;
I could have drained the fountain dry,
So raging was my thirst.
Such deep emotions filled my soul
I woke—the vision fled:
The moonbeams through the curtain stole,
Ah! ’twas a dream, I said.
But well I know there is a land
Where flows the living stream;
And when upon its banks I stand,
Oh, then ’twill be no dream.
“Earth is fair, oh so fair,”—
Sang a little, happy bird;
Though a prey to grief and care,
With a smile I heard.
Sing again that blithesome strain,
Precious little bird, I said;
For the heart that throbbed with pain
Thou hast comforted!
“Earth is fair, oh so fair,”
Louder sang the happy bird;
“What have I to do with care,
Or with hope deferred?”
All the western sky was red
With the beams of setting sun,
As the sportsman homeward sped
With the fatal gun.
“Earth is fair, oh so fair,
And I love the green earth well,”—
Death was in the balmy air,
And the warbler fell!
Earth is fair—but earth no more
Wears its pleasant green for thee,—
Cold and stiff and bathed in gore
Underneath the tree.
Earth is fair, but alas!
It hath many scenes of woe;
Happy they who through them pass,
Sweetly singing as they go,—
Comforting some lonely heart,
Making some weak spirit strong;—
So may I, and then depart,
On my lips a song!
How still and calm! what fairer scene e’er met
The eye of mortal short of Paradise?
The quiet lake is like a mirror set
In richest green where sunset loves to see
Itself arrayed in crimson, pink and gold.
And e’en the proud old mountain bows his head
Shaggy with hemlocks, and appears well pleased
To view so grand a form reflected there.
Hark! o’er the polished surface how the loons
Call to each other, waking echoes wild
From crag and cliff, and waking in my heart
Sweet memories of other days and years
When health was on my cheek, and hope and love
O’er all the future wove one iris bright.
Ah, little prophets, do you then predict
A rainy morrow? By yon crimson west
I doubt your warnings; so in truth it seems
Does yonder farmer who, with shouldered scythe
From meadows fragrant with the new-mown hay,
Goes whistling homeward, glad to seek repose
Until another sun shall call him forth,
To gather into barns the winter’s store
Of food provided for the gentle king
That faintly lowing from the pastures come
Scented with herbage, giving promise fair
Of pails o’erflowing with a sweeter drink
Than ever gleamed in the inebriate’s bowl.
