RIVERSIDE.

———

BY GEO. CANNING HILL.

———

In a wood, all deep and solemn,

Where fall many a leafy column

Lifts aloft its crested summit to the beautiful blue sky—

Where the sunbeams bright and golden,

Gloss the mosses dank and olden,

And the brooks, from out them slipping, to the gleaming river hie;—

A piazza, broad and shaded,

By the vines about it braided,

Has within its wreathed pilasters full a world of lovely dreams;

And it looks toward the river,

Where long shadows lie and quiver—

Lie and quiver in the sun that through the nodding treetops streams.

I can hear the distant tumble

Of the waters, and the rumble

Of the mill-wheel, never ceasing on its constant, busy round,

And the cascade’s steady drumming

Comes like sweet and lowly humming,

As if water-sprites were chanting, with a low and dreamy sound.

If the sun have just arisen,

With its brightness to bedizen

Clustered leaves, and vines, and flowers—and the dew-drops on the lawn—

What a glory is before me—

All around, beside, and o’er me—

What a glory, all of colors that no human hand hath drawn!

Or if it be at even,

When soft breezes blow from heaven,

And the glimmer of the twilight comes a-dancing through the leaves—

Oh! how thick my brain is crowded

With sweet images enshrouded—

With sweet images enshrouded in the mists my fancy weaves!

Little pools lie closely hidden

In the woods, as if forbidden

To reflect within their surface but a hand’s breadth of the sky—

Where the turtle’s lonely whirring

Is at evening ever stirring,

Winning over the calm list’ner with its saddest melody.

I have often sat, when saddened,

And as often, too, when gladdened,

At the side of these clear mirrors, where the sweetest dreams have slept;

And the world beyond forgotten,

Quiet thoughts would be begotten—

Thoughts of Life, and Love, and Heaven, over which I fondly wept.

And beside the river’s dashing,

In the tumult of its plashing,

I have felt my pulses quickened, and my spirits bravely stirred;

Then below, where it runs slowly,

And the boughs bend over lowly,

My soul again was saddened, as by some enchanter’s word.

Upon every tree are builded—

By the garish sun ne’er gilded—

Nests of songsters, close secluded in the still and welcome shades;

And within their snug dominions

I can see the fledging pinions

Of the callow young, grown restless in their leafy colonnades.

The fresh morning air is ringing

With a concord of sweet singing,

From a million throats all pouring out their melody of praise;

High within the sylvan arches

Of the chestnuts, holms, and larches,

Sounds the hymning of these songsters in the forest’s darkened maze.

I love to sit at morning,

In the glory of the dawning

Of the sunlight, flashing over the high eastern hills afar,

On this broad piazza olden,

Where the gray streaks and the golden

Come a-streaming from their chambers through the vines that curtains are.

The hawthorn and the holly,

Bearing berries red and jolly,

Are inwoven with the bushes that run riot with them all;

And like caps of grenadiers

The dark moss in clumps appears—

The dark moss that stands in bunches all along the garden wall.

O, ’tis glorious in October,

When the sky is clear and sober,

To rove among the beauties that abound at Riverside!

For the forest is all blazing

With the Autumn colors, raising

Painted groves, and tinted arbors, where was naught but green beside,

And the influences setting

In upon me are begetting

Purer thoughts than those I felt away among the busy crowd;

For the earth hath such a seeming,

With its thousand glories teeming,

That I dare not always trust myself to utter words aloud.

Yes, for me the deep wood solemn,

Where full many a leafy column

Lifts aloft its crested summit to the beautiful blue sky,

And the sunbeams, bright and golden,

Gloss the mosses gray and olden,

And the brooks, from out them slipping, to the gleaming river hie.