THE WILDWOOD HOME.
Reading edition
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BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON.
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Oh! show a place like the wildwood home,
Where the air is fragrant and free,
And the first pure breathings of morning come
In a gush of melody,
As she lifts the soft fringe from her dark blue eye,
With a radiant smile of love,
And the diamonds that over her bosom lie,
Are bright as the gems above.
Where noon lies down in the breezy shade
Of the glorious forest bowers,
And the beautiful birds from the sunny glade,
Sit nodding amongst the flowers.
While the holy child of the mountain spring,
Steals past with a murmur’d song,
And the wild bee sleeps in the bells that swing
Its garlanded banks along.
And spotted fawns, where the vines are twin’d,
Are dancing away the hours,
With feet as light as the summer wind
That hardly bends the flowers.
Where day steals away with a young bride’s blush,
To the soft, green couch of night,
And the moon throws o’er with a holy hush,
Her curtains of gossamer light.
The seraph that hides in the hemlock dell,
Oh! sweetest of birds is she,
Fills the dewy breeze with a trancing swell
Of melody rich and free.
Where Nature still gambols in maiden pride
By valley and pine-plumed hill,
Hangs glorious wreaths on each mountain side,
And dances in every rill.
There are glittering mansions with marble walls,
Surmounted by mighty towers,
Where fountains play in the perfumed halls,
Amongst exotic flowers,
They are fitting homes for the haughty minds,
Yet a wildwood home for me,
Where the pure, bright waters, the mountain winds,
And the bounding hearts are free.