Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/295

 SOPHIA HELEN OLIYEE. Sophia Helen Oliver was born in the year 1811, at Lexington, Kentucky. In 1837 she was married to Joseph H. Oliver, a physician who is well known in south- ern Ohio. He was for six or eight years a leading Professor in the Eclectic Medical College at Cincinnati. Mrs. Oliver was a contributor to several of the early literary newspapers of Kentucky and Ohio. She wrote some of her best poems for the Cincin- nati Daily Message, in 1841. The latest poems from her pen which we have seen, were contributed to the Columbian and Great West, in the years 1850 and 1851. SHADOWS. They are gliding, they are gliding, O'er the meadows green and gay ; Like a fairy troop they're riding Through the breezy woods away ; On the mountain-tops they linger When the sun is sinking low, And they point with giant finger To the sleeping vale below. They are flitting, they are flitting. O'er the waving corn and rye, And now they're calmly sitting Neath the oak-tree's branches high. And where the tired reaper Hath sought the sheltering tree, They dance above the sleeper In light, fantastic glee. They are creeping, they are creeping, Over valley, hill, and stream, Like the thousand fancies sweeping Through a youthful poet's dream. Now they mount on noiseless pinions With the eagle to the sky — Soar along those broad dominions Where the stars in beauty lie. They are dancing, they are dancing, Where our country's banner bright In the morning beam is glancing. With its stars and stripes of light ; And where the glorious prairies Spread out like garden bowers. They fly along like fairies, Or sleep beneath the flowers. They are leaping, they are leaping, Where a cloud beneath the moon O'er the lake's soft breast is sleeping. Lulled by a pleasant tune ; And where the fire is glancing At twilight through the hall. Tall specter forms are dancing Upon the lofty wall. They are lying, they are lying, Where the solemn yew-tree waves. And the evening winds are sighing In the lonely place of graves ; And their noiseless feet are creeping, With slow and stealthy tread, Where the ancient church is keeping Its watch above the dead. Lo, they follow ! — lo, they follow ! Or before flit to and fro (279)