That blessed isle lies far away— 'Tis many a weary league from land, Where billows in their golden play Dash on its sparkling sand. No tempest's wrath, or stormy waters' roar, Disturb the echoes of that peaceful shore.
There the light breezes lie at rest, Soft pillowed on the glassy deep; Pale cliffs look on the waters' breast, And watch their silent sleep. There the wild swan with plumed and glossy wing Sits lone and still beside the bubbling spring.
And far within, in murmurs heard, Comes, with the wind's low whispers there, The music of the mounting bird, Skimming the clear bright air. The sportive brook, with free and silvery tide, Comes wildly dancing from the green hill side.
The sun there sheds his noontide beam On oak-crowned hill and leafy bowers; And gaily by the shaded stream Spring forth the forest flowers. The fountain flings aloft its showery spray, With rainbows decked, that mock the hues of day.
And when the dewy morning breaks, A thousand tones of rapture swell; A thrill of life and motion wakes Through hill, and plain, and dell. The wild bird trills his song—and from the wood The red deer bounds to drink beside the flood.
There, when the sun sets on the sea, And gilds the forest's waving crown, Strains of immortal harmony To those sweet shades come down. Bright and mysterious forms that green shore throng, And pour in evening's ear their charmed song.
E'en on this cold and cheerless shore, While all is dark and quiet near, The huntsman, when his toils are o'er, That melody may hear. And see, faint gleaming o'er the waters' foam, The glories of that isle, his future home.
INDIAN SUMMER—1828.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.