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SONNET-TO COLE, THE PAINTER

DEPARTING FOR EUROPE.

THINE

eyes shall see the light of distant skies:
Yet, COLE! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand
A living image of thy native land,

Such as on thy own glorious canvass lies.
Lone lakes-savannas where the bison roves-

Rocks rich with summer garlands-solemn streams—
Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams
Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves.
Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest-fair,
But different--everywhere the trace of men,
Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen
To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air.
Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight,
But keep that earlier, wilder image bright.

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GREEN RIVER.

WHEN breezes are soft and skies are fair, I steal an hour from study and care, And hie me away to the woodland scene, Where wanders the stream with waters of green; As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink, Had given their stain to the wave they drink; And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, Have named the stream from its own fair hue.

Yet
pure its waters-its shallows are bright
With coloured pebbles and sparkles of light,
And clear the depths where its eddies play,
And dimples deepen and whirl away,
And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot
The swifter current that mines its root,

Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill,
The quivering glimmer of sun and rill,

With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown,

Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone. Oh, loveliest there the spring days come,

With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum;

The flowers of summer are fairest there,

And freshest the breath of the summer air;

GREEN RIVER.

And sweetest the golden autumn day
In silence and sunshine glides away.

Yet fair as thou art, thou shunn'st to glide,
Beautiful stream! by the village side;
But windest away from haunts of men,
To quiet valley and shaded glen;

And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill,
Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still.
Lonely-save when, by thy rippling tides,
From thicket to thicket the angler glides;
Or the simpler comes with basket and book,
For herbs of power on thy banks to look ;
Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me,
To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee.
Still-save the chirp of birds that feed
On the river cherry and seedy reed,
And thy own wild music gushing out
With mellow murmur and fairy shout,
From dawn, to the blush of another day
Like traveller singing along his way.

That fairy music I never hear,

Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear,
And mark them winding away from sight,
Darkened with shade or flashing with light,
While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings,
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings,
But I wish that fate had left me free

To wander these quiet haunts with thee,

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GREEN RIVER.

Till the eating cares of earth should depart,
And the peace of the scene pass into my heart;
And I envy thy stream, as it glides along,
Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song,

Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, And mingle among the jostling crowd,

Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud

I often come to this quiet place,

To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face,
And gaze upon thee in silent dream,

For in thy lonely and lovely stream,
An image of that calm life appears,
That won my heart in my greener years.

TO A CLOUD.

BEAUTIFUL cloud! with folds so soft and fair,
Swimming in the pure quiet air!

Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below
Thy shadow o'er the vale moves slow;
Where, midst their labour, pause the reaper
As cool it comes along the grain.
Beautiful cloud! I would I were with thee
In thy calm way o'er land and sea:
To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look
On Earth as on an open book;

train

On streams that tie her realms with silver bands,
And the long ways that seam her lands;
And hear her humming cities, and the sound
Of the great ocean breaking round.
Ay-I would sail upon thy air-borne car
To blooming regions distant far,
To where the sun of Andalusia shines
On his own olive-groves and vines,
Or the soft lights of Italy's bright sky

In smiles upon her ruins lie.

But I would woo the winds to let us rest

O'er Greece long fettered and oppressed,

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