The birds of the forest thy spirits can cheer,
   Their songs fill with music thy sensitive ear,
   But has that fair dove in thy heart found a nest,
   Whose singing can make thee eternally blest?

MOONLIGHT MUSINGS.

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A ROW OF FINE TREES NEAR
MY DWELLING.

     These youthful pines, a verdant row,
     Cast their dark shadows on the snow;
     Just like a picture, or a dream,
     Or tale of fairy lands, they seem. 
     I hear a soft melodious lay,
     The winds are with their tops at play;
   While moonbeams through their branches stealing,
   Wake up a wild romantic feeling.

     The forest birds in spring will come,
     ’Neath these green boughs to make their home,
     To cheer us with their sweet wild song,
     To build their nests and rear their young. 
     Child of the wood, in infancy,
     I learned to love the forest tree;
   I’m still the same romantic creature,
   Admiring all the works of nature.

     The rocks, the fields, the groves and flowers,
     Are fraught with some mysterious powers,
     That bind me with a pleasing spell,
     Which naught can break while here I dwell. 
     The wild bird’s note, the woodland dell,
     Have charms beyond my power to tell;
   While winds are through the forest roaring,
   My spirit with the sound seems soaring.

     The rosy morn, the sunset sky,
     The glitt’ring retinue on high,
     The sun’s broad blaze, the moon’s mild beams,
     Reflected from the lakes and streams,
     The lightning’s flash, the thunder’s roar,
     The ocean dashing on the shore,
   And meteors streaming through the air,
   Proclaim that God is everywhere.

THOUGHTS

SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A PETUNIA.

   Fair plant, well pleased on thee I look,
   Thou art a page in nature’s book,
     Which I delight to read;
   Though stoics set thee quite at naught,
   And say that none but children ought
   On such vain trifles spend a thought,
     Their words I little heed.

   A child I’d ever wish to be,
   With an instructer just like thee,
     And listen to her voice;
   Fain wouldst thou our best passions move,
   And lead our wandering thoughts above,
   Where, at the fount of boundless love,
     We ever might rejoice.

   Our tender care thou dost repay,
   Though watched and guarded night and day,
     Thus teaching thoughtless man;
   When thou art nursed and watered well,
   Thy bursting buds with fragrance swell,
   And thus the grateful story tell,
     That we do all we can.

   Thy blooming petals love the light. 
   The sun smiles on them, they grow bright,
     Withdraws his beams, they faint;
   Yet, when beneath his radiant gaze,
   The modest blush that o’er them plays,
   To every thinking mind, portrays
     The contrite, humble saint.