Part 14 — THE WAYSIDE DREAM.

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BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

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The deep and lordly Danube

Goes winding far below;—

I see the white-walled hamlets

Amid his vineyards glow,

And southward, through the ether, shine

The Styrian hills of snow.

O’er many a league of landscape

Sleeps the warm haze of noon;

The wooing winds come freighted

With fragrant tales of June,

And down amid the corn and flowers

I hear the water’s tune.

The meadow-lark is singing

As if it still were morn;

Sounds through the dark pine forest

The hunter’s dreamy horn;

And the shy cuckoo’s plaining note

Mocks the maidens in the corn.

I watch the cloud armada

Go sailing up the sky,

Lulled by the murmuring mountain-grass,

Upon whose bed I lie,

And the faint sound of noonday chimes

That in the distance die!

A warm and drowsy sweetness

Is stealing o’er my brain;

I see no more the Danube

Sweep through his royal plain—

I hear no more the peasant-girls

Singing amid the grain!

Soft, silvery wings, a moment

Seem resting on my brow:

Again I hear the water,

But its voice is deeper now,

And the mocking-bird and oriole

Are singing on the bough!

The elm and linden branches

Droop close and dark o’erhead,

And the foaming forest brooklet

Leaps down its rocky bed;

Be still, my heart! the seas are passed—

The paths of home I tread!

The showers of creamy blossoms

Are on the linden spray,

And down the clover meadow

They heap the scented hay,

And glad winds toss the forest leaves

All the bright summer day.

Old playmates! bid me welcome

Amid your brother band!

Give me the old affection—

The glowing grasp of hand!

I worship no more the realms of old—

Here is my Fatherland!

Come hither, gentle maiden,

Who weep’st in tender joy!

The rapture of thy presence

Overcomes the world’s annoy,

And calms the wild and throbbing heart

Which warms the wandering boy.

In many a mountain fastness—

By many a river’s foam,

And through the gorgeous cities,

’Twas loneliness to roam,

For the sweetest music in my heart

Was the olden songs of home!

Ah! glen, and foaming brooklet,

And friends, have vanished now!

The balmy Styrian breezes

Are blowing on my brow,

And sounds again the cuckoo’s call

From the forest’s inmost bough.

Veiled is the heart’s glad vision—

The wings of Fancy fold;

I rise and journey onward.

Through valleys green and old,

Where the far, white Alps reveal the morn

And keep the sunset’s gold!