WOODLAND LAY.
Oh come to the woodland where joys reign supreme,
Where the zephyr’s soft kiss lightly touches the brow,
And the sun gently drops thro’ the leaves in a dream
And sleeps in the shade of the wide-spreading bough.
Let the world plod along with its stern, solemn face,
With its brow deeply wrinkled with thought and with care;
Let the pleasures of life to-day’s business replace
While we list to the charm of its wild, joyous air.
The murm’ring of brooks, the singing of birds,
The whisper of winds and the leaves soft reply,
The bleating of flocks and the lowing of herds,
The breathing of nature from earth to the sky—
All combine to make music with cadence as sweet
To the ear of the mortal, as the music of spheres,
Gentle wooed from the harp at Infinity’s feet
And as softly let fall on angelical ears.
Like the soft flakes of snow as they fall on the deep,
The rhythmical notes adown tremblingly go
On the listening air, and as silently sleep
In the ocean of joys, where they melt as the snow.