Page:Poems (Bryant, 1821).djvu/39

 The squirrel with raised paws and form erect

Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the glade

Try their thin wings, and dance in the warm beam

That waked them into life. Even the green trees

Partake the deep contentment; as they bend

To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky

Looks in, and sheds a blessing on the scene.

Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy

Existence, than the winged plunderer

That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks themselves,

And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees,

That lead from knoll to knoll, a causey rude,

Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots

With all their earth upon them, twisting high,

Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet

Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o’er its bed

Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,

Seems with continuous laughter to rejoice

In its own being. Softly tread the marge,

Lest from her midway perch, thou scare the wren

That dips her bill in water. The cool wind,

That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee,

Like one that loves thee, nor will let thee pass

Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.