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The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung. Thus soothed and pleased, our backward path
we took, Praising the farmer's home. He only spake, Looking into the sunset o'er the lake,
Like one to whom the far-off is most near: “ Yes, most folks think it has a pleasant look ; I love it for my good old mother's sake, Who lived and died here in the peace of
God!” The lesson of his words we pondered o’er, As silently we turned the eastern flank Of the mountain, where its shadow deepest
sank, Doubling the night along our rugged road: We felt that man was more than his abode,
The inward life than Nature's raiment more; And the warm sky, the sundown-tinted hill, The forest and the lake, seemed dwarfed and
Before the saintly soul, whose human will
Meekly in the Eternal footsteps trod, Making her homely toil and household ways An earthly echo of the song of praise .
Swelling from angel lips and harps of seraphim!
n NCE more on yonder laurelled height
The summer flowers have budded ; Once more with summer's golden light
The vales of home are flooded ; And once more, by the grace of Him
Of every good the Giver, We sing upon its wooded rim
The praises of our river:
Its pines above, its waves below,
The west wind down it blowing,
As fair as when the young Brissot
Beheld it seaward flowing, –
To soothe a martyr's sadness,
His prison-walls with gladness.
We know the world is rich with streams
Renowned in song and story,
Of human love and glory:
And Rhine has castled shadows,
Go singing down their meadows.
But while, unpictured and unsung
By painter or by poet,
And cunning hand to show it,
We only know the fond skies lean
Above it, warm with blessing, And the sweet soul of our Undine
Awakes to our caressing.
No fickle Sun-God holds the flocks
That graze its shores in keeping; No icy kiss of Dian mocks
The youth beside it sleeping : Our Christian river loveth most
The beautiful and human ; The heathen streams of Naiads boast,
But ours of man and women.
The miner in his cabin hears,
The ripple we are hearing ;
Around the settler's clearing:
Or Santee's bloom of cotton,