Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/693

 WILLIAM S. PETERSON. William S. Peterson, a member of the Iowa Amiual Conference of the Meth- odist Episcopal Church, was born in Dearborn county, Indiana, November twenty- second, 1836. He has written for the Ladies' Repository and other periodicals pub- lished under the auspices of the church to which he belongs. Mr. Peterson is at present stationed at Winterset, Iowa. THE FOREST SPRING. Very bright and pleasant pictures In the joyous reign of summer. Has my fancy often drawn When the southern breezes blow. Of the wild deer in the forest, O'er the wood-lands and the meadows Resting here beside her fawn. Phoebus spreads his fiery glow, Drinking from the limpid streamlet, And the blue-birds in the orchard In the years now long agone. Warble music soft and low. Here the laughing Indian maiden To the greenwood grove I hasten. Has her glowing lips immersed, And with lightsome heart I sing: And the haughty forest hunter Give to me the sparkling water Often here has quenched his thirst, That is bubbling from the spring ; Ere the damning "fire-water" Give me water, crystal water. Had the red man's nature cursed. For it leaves behind no sting ! But old Time has changed the scenery ; O'er me wave the leafy branches, Earth is of her forests shorn, In the softly sighing breeze. And the Indian wanders westward. Which is playing, like a lover. Spirit-broken and forlorn, With the tresses of the trees ; For his fathers' lands are waving And around me, in the clover, With the white man's golden corn. Hum the honey-hunting bees. . But the spring is ever flowing. Mother Earth is full of beauty. Through the change of every year, In her summer glories dressed; Just as when the Indian maiden Here, upon her lap reclining, Quaffed its waters pure and clear. Like an infant, will I rest. Just as when across its bosom And enjoy the healthful current Fell the shadow of the deer. That is flowing from her breast. As I quaff its brimming sweetness On the mossy margin kneeling, With my fever-heated lips. I my simple numbers sing — I would not exchange one crystal The glad heart's spontaneous tribute Drop that off the beaker drips, In a song of rapture bring — For the brightest liquid riches Drinking, in this crystal water, That the bacchanalian sips. "Health to all who love the spring!" (6 ^7)