THE POET’S TREASURES.

The laughing streams all crystal bright, How sweet their murmuring song, As, strewn with blossoms and flecked with light, They joyously dance along! They glance through the valleys like silver wings; They twinkle, they gleam, they shine; And while my heart in rapture sings, They whisper they are mine! Like a maiden’s tresses so sleek, so fine, They ripple, and wave, and curl; They blush ’neath the sunset like rosy wine, And sing like a happy girl. When, weary, I sink on the emerald sod, They dimple, and seem to say: ‘We are balm fresh flung from the hand of God; Come, bathe in our fairy spray.’ The warbling birds are my minstrels all; Ah! they know that I love them well, For I hasten forth, when their voices call, To forest or leafy dell; On buoyant pinions they come and go, Capricious, and wild, and free, And I sing to the children of toil and woe The songs they sing to me. The trees are mine, and the humble flowers That sigh ’mid the rustling grass, When steeped in the fragrance of summer showers, The amorous zephyrs pass. When the world grows cold, and I turn away From its fickle and loveless throng, They nestle around me, and seem to say: ‘We love you, poor child of song!’ They kiss the dust from my weary feet; They tremble, and blush, and sigh; And the bonny daisy, so fresh, so sweet, A tear in her golden eye, Seemeth to me, in her gown of white, More lovely than all the rest, With the beauty of summer in her sight, And its sunshine in her breast. I own not one inch of the land, not I, Nor jewels nor silks I wear, Yet, free to roam ’neath the azure sky, I am wealthy beyond compare. To the plodding worldling, let pomp and pride And the treasures of earth be given, While I rest content on the fair hillside, Rich, rich in the gifts of heaven! Fanny Forrester.