O would that she were here, Where frolic by the hours, Rife with the song of bee and bird, The perfume of the flowers,— Where beams of peace and love, And radiant beauty's glow, Are pictured in the sky above, And in the lake below. O would that she were here— The nymphs of this bright scene, With song, and dance, and revelry, Would crown Bianca queen.
WHITE LAKE. [L]
BY A. B. STREET.
Pure as their parent springs! how bright The silvery waters stretch away, Reposing in the pleasant light Of June's most lovely day.
Curving around the eastern side, Rich meadows slope their banks, to meet With fringe of grass and fern, the tide Which sparkles at their feet.
Here busy life attests that toil, With its quick talisman, has made Fields green and waving, from a soil Of rude and savage shade.
While opposite the forests lie In giant shadow, black and deep, Filling with leaves the circling sky, And frowning in their sleep.
Amid this scene of light and gloom, Nature with art links hand in hand, Thick woods beside soft rural bloom, As by a seer's command.
Here waves the grain, here curls the smoke, The orchard bends; there, wilds, as dark As when the hermit waters woke Beneath the Indian's bark.