The eagle's scream, the storm-bird's cry,
The winds that whistle loud and high;
The elements' most angry moan
Is to my heart a music tone!
And yet I love earth's gentler hours,
Her sunny smile, and song, and flowers;
I love the gushing waterfall,
The tiny streamlet's gentler call—
Sol's morning rise, and sunset glow.
Shining upon the mountain's snow
In many a radiant rosy wreath,
Shaming the shadow-land beneath!
I love the tall old monarch oak,
The pensive willow by the brook;
I love the brilliant flowers, but less
Than the sweet violet's bashfulness.
Oft when the summer sun goes down
From his high zenith-sceptered throne,
And with his skillful pencil shrouds
The azure o'er with glorious clouds,
To vail his eye's bright parting ray,
And promise us another day,
As bright and beautiful, to come,
Yet in eternity, morrow's home;
Oft at such hours my heart doth fill
With feelings strange, unutterable!
And such emotions crowd my soul
As my weak strength can not control;
And such a strong oppressiveness
Sometimes upon my heart doth press,
I long to take from out my breast
The heart that feels such wild unrest:
So much by different time and scene,
My spirit tempest-tost hath been.
Her. Sweet, young enthusiast! how high, and pure,
And grand thy natural poetry of soul!
