From His creating hand, thus seem to me
These virgin-fields, so fresh, so still, so grand
Where nearer wafts His breath into my heart,
Where clearer speaks His presence to my mind,
Where louder peals His voice into my ear.
Here, as each day succeeds its predecessor,
It leaves engraven on my memory
The luxury of every breath I drew,
The spell of every gaze I cast about,
Withal a soul-felt record of delight.
Behold this emerald sea of waving meads,
Hedged round by fields aglow with gaudy flowers
Which, swelling to the dim horizon's brink,
By roseate tints blend earth and evening-sky.
While through the clear, transparent atmosphere
Those forest-groves, like as Elysian Isles,
Seem slowly sailing o'er the grassy main
In golden-green and amber-colored light.
Fair Italy may boast her sunny clime,
Greece may extol her azure-sky's abyss.
The Rhine parade his valley's loveliness,—
They cannot match this blessed Texan land
Which every day grows dearer to my heart.
Wm. J. Russell.
Thou art quite right, my friend; I, too, enjoy
This happy climate's grateful benefits.
Marked out, meseems, for Labor's paradise.
With golden harvests here the friendly ground
