210
POEMS.
There's music in the evening breeze,
That lightly fans the flowers;
Or rudely shakes the forest trees
In Autumn's gloomy hours.
That lightly fans the flowers;
Or rudely shakes the forest trees
In Autumn's gloomy hours.
There's music in the tiny shout,
That tells of childhood's glee,
When the young heart is gushing out
In merry minstrelsy.
That tells of childhood's glee,
When the young heart is gushing out
In merry minstrelsy.
The birds and insect throng rejoice,
And sweet the notes they raise,
Thus Nature, with her varied voice,
Echoes her Maker's praise.
And sweet the notes they raise,
Thus Nature, with her varied voice,
Echoes her Maker's praise.
