September 11.
Woodland Walks.
These are delightful at any time. At about this season of the year, 1817, the following poetical description appeared in a newspaper which no longer exists:—
LINES
By Mr. J. H. Reynolds.
Whence is the secret charm of this lone wood,
Which in the light of evening sweetly sleeps!—
I tread with lingering feet the quiet steeps,
Where thwarted oaks o’er their own old age brood;—
And where the gentler trees, in summer weather,
Spring up all greenly in their youth together;
And the grass is dwelling in a silent mood,
And the fir-like fern its under forest keeps
In a strange stillness. My winged spirit sweeps
Not as it hath been wont,—but stays with me
Like some domestic thing that loves its home;
It lies a-dreaming o’er the imagery
Of other scenes,—which from afar do come,
Matching them with this indolent solitude.
Here,—I am walking in the days gone by,—
And under trees which I have known before.
My heart with feelings old is running o’er—
And I am happy as the morning sky.
The present seems a mockery of the past—
And all my thoughts flow by me, like a stream,
That hath no home, that sings beneath the beam
Of the summer sun,—and wanders through sweet meads,—
In which the joyous wildflower meekly feeds,—
And strays,—and wastes away in woods at last.
My thoughts o’er many things fleet silently,—
But to this older forest creep, and cling fast.
Imagination, ever wild and free,
With heart as open as the naked sea,
Can consecrate whate’er it looks upon:—
And memory, that maiden never lone,
Lights all the dream of life. While I can see
This blue deep sky,—that sun so proudly setting
In the haughty west,—this spring patiently wetting
The shadowy dell,—these trees so tall and fair,
That have no visiters but the birds and air:—
And hear those leaves a gentle whispering keep,
Light as young joy, and beautiful as sleep,—
The melting of sweet waters in the dells,—
The music of the loose flocks’ lulling bells,
Which sinks into the heart like spirit’s spells.
While these all softly o’er my senses sweep,—
I need not doubt that I shall ever find
Things, that will feed the cravings of my mind.
My happiest hours were past with those I love
On steeps;—in dells, with shadowy trees above;
And therefore it may be my soul ne’er sleeps,
When I am in a pastoral solitude:—
And such may be the charm of this lone wood,
That in the light of evening sweetly sleeps.