The martin scolding at the wren.
Which sharply answers back again,
Till across the angry song
Strains of laughter run along.
Now leaps the bow with airy bound,
Like dancer springing from the ground,
And now like autumn wind comes sighing,
Over leaves and blossoms dying.
The lark now singeth from afar
Her carol to the morning–star,
A clear soprano rising high,
Ascending to the inmost sky.
And now the scattered tones are flying,
Like sparks in midnight darkness dying;
Gems from rockets in the sky,
Falling—falling—gracefully.
Now wreathed and twined—but still evolving
Harmonious oneness in revolving;
Departing with the faintest sigh,
Like ghost of some sweet melody.
As on a harp with golden strings,
All nature breathes to thee,
And with her thousand voices sings
The infinite and free.
Of beauty she is lavish ever;
Her urn is always full;
But to our earth she giveth never
Another Ole Bull.
Mrs. Botta’s poem is entitled