“In that bright, blissful world of ours,
The waters of life I drink:
Behold my feet, as they ’ve pressed the flowers,
That grow by the fountain’s brink!
“No thorn is hidden to wound me there;
There ’s nothing of chill, or blight,
Or sighing to blend with the balmy air—
No sorrow—no pain—no night!”
“No parting?” I asked, with a burst of joy;
And the lovely illusion broke!
My rapture had banished my beauteous boy—
To a shadowy void I spoke.
But, O! that STAR of the morn still beams
With light to direct my feet
Where, when I have done with my earthly dreams,
The mother and child may meet.
[THE WAR-SPIRIT ON BUNKER’S HEIGHT.]
The sun walked the skies in the splendor of June,
O’er earth full of promise, and air full of tune;
The broad azure streams calmly rolled to the deep,
Whose waves on its breast stirred like babes in their sleep.
The turf heaved its green to the white vestured flock,
That fed, or reposed in the shade of the rock;
The birds sang their songs by their nests in the bowers;
And the bee hummed with sweets from the fresh opened flowers.
The humming-bird glittered, and whirred o’er the cell,
Where her nectar was stored, from the hill to the dell;
’Mid the bloom and the perfume, that passed on the breeze,
From the rose, and the vine, and the fruit-bearing trees.