He hears the happy farmer folk
Who toss the fragrant hay;
Blessings upon him they invoke,
And beg of him to stay.
The music of the feathered choirs,
The murmur of the bees,
Are sounds of which he never tires
Beneath the maple trees.
He hums a sweet, melodious tune,
His hand a garland weaves,
He talks the while he feasts at noon,
His laughter shakes the leaves.
He tells of conquests in the south,
Of triumphs overseas,
Of realms redeemed and deeds of drouth,
Beneath the maple trees.
He shouts and holds his jolly sides,
And strikes his lusty thigh,
To think of how Sir Winter hides
His face when he is nigh,
Or how with city exquisites
His swagger disagrees:
Thus glad Sir Summer gaily sits
Beneath the maple trees.
I know where I can find his bower
Upon a wooded hill,
Where I can pluck his favorite flower,
And bathe within his rill;
And thither I will take my flight,
And loiter at my ease,
And pay my homage to the Knight
Beneath the maple trees.
THE NIGHT.
A tremor, a quiver,
Through her ran
As over the river
The dawn began.
She drew her veil
Over her eyes,
And her face grew pale,
As she watched the sun rise.
She faded, turned
To a ghost, was gone,
As the morning burned
And the day came on.
With veiled, sad eye,
And face still wan,
She waited nigh
When the dusk began.
With her tears of bliss
The earth was wet,
And soothed with her kiss,
When the sun had set.
And with stately pride
She sat on the throne
Of her empire wide
When the day had gone;
And her robes she spread
With their sable hem,
And crowned her head
With her diadem.
And the mute earth saw
That a Queen was she,
And gazed with awe
On her majesty.
TO BEAUTY.
Beauty, beloved of all gentle hearts
And pure, and cherished of the gifted tribe
Whose skill to canvas and even stone imparts
Such things as words are powerless to describe.
And bards, who woo thee in the silent shade
And dote upon thee under moonlit skies,
And lovers, who behold thee new-array'd,
As our first parents did in Paradise!