Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/434

 418 BENJAMIN F. TAYLOPl [1810-50. And how silent we grew If the robin came too, "When he looked up to pray, and then bent down to drink ! Ah, where are the faces From out thy still places, That so often smiled back in those soft days of May ? As we bent hand in hand Thou didst double the band As idle as daisies, and as fleeting as they. Like a dawn in a cloud Lay the babe in the shroud. And a rose-bud was clasped in its frozen white hand : At the mother's last look It had opened the book. As if sweet-breathing June were abroad in the land. Oh, pure, placid River, Make music forever In the gardens of Paradise, hard by the Throne, For on thy fair shore. Gently drifted before. We may find the lost blossoms that once were our own. Ah, beautiful River, Flow onward forever. Thou art grander than Avon and sweeter than Ayr ; If a tree has been shaken, If a star has been taken, In thy bosom Ave look — bud and Pleiad are there ! I take up the old words, • Like the song of dead birds That was breathed when I stood farther off from the sea ! When I heard not its hymn. When the Headlands were dim — Shall I e'er weave again a rhythm for thee ? JUNE DEWS. The breath of the leaves and the lyrics of dawn Were floating away in the air ; The brooks and the birds were all singing aloud. The violets looking a prayer, With eyes that upturned, so tearful and true. Like Mary's of old, when forgiven. Had caught the reflection and mirrored it there, As bright and as melting as heaven. The silvery mist of the red robin's song, Slow swung in the wind-wavered nest ; The billows that swell from the forests of June, Almost to the blue of the blest ; " The bells," that are rung by the breath of the breeze, And "toll their perfume" as they swing ; The brooks that are trolling a tune of their own. And dance to whatever they sing ; The groan of the wretched, the laugh of the glad, Are blent with the breath of a prayer ; The sigh of the dying, the whisper of love, A vow that was broken, are there ! There dimly they float, 'mid the ripe, golden hours. Along the bright ti'ellis of air ; The smothered good-by, and the whisper of love. The ban and the blessing, are there ! Cool fingers are weaving the curtains again. Whose woofing is netted with stars ; The ti'emulous woods on the verge of the world, Just bending beneath the blue spars,