Niagara, and Other Poems. Benjamin Copeland
dost thou deign to dower the moment’s need—
Our dreams exceeding by thy bounteous sway;
With power unrivaled thy proud flood shall speed
The New World’s progress toward Time’s perfect day.
O mighty monitor! O seer sublime!
The soul’s surpassing grandeur thou dost show;—
The fountains of thy immemorial prime
Through man’s immortal being freely flow.
THE MEADOW AIR IS SWEET.
The meadow air is sweet;—
The cowslip’s cup of gold
Is full of fresh and fragrant dew—
More full than it can hold.
The meadow air is sweet;—
The blackbird’s mellow note,
Like water in a little brook,
Flows gurgling from his throat.
The meadow air is sweet;—
The stream that cheers the lea
Will feel the willow’s tender kiss,
E’en to the distant sea.
The meadow air is sweet;—
Hark! from the old elm tree:—
Ah! only lovers understand
The oriole’s ecstasy.
The meadow air is sweet;—
The clover, handsome-white,
With dainty odors woos the bee,
And fills her with delight.
The meadow air is sweet;—
The bobolink is there!
When he is mute a faery flute
Seems echoing in the air.
The meadow air is sweet;—
The daisy in the grass
Looks up to see the clouds, and feel
Their shadow as they pass.
The meadow air is sweet;—
The swallow flashes by,
Too merry for a moment’s rest
Between the earth and sky.
The meadow air is sweet;—
The day wanes in the west,
And twilight’s soothing shadows lull
A weary world to rest.
The meadow air is sweet;—
Like altar incense rare,
It blends the robin’s even-song
With the little children’s prayer.
WHEN LIFE WAS LIKE A SUNNY STREAM.
Alas! it seemeth but a dream—
My childhood’s bright, bright day,
When life was like a sunny stream
Left to its own glad way.
How wonderful the radiant Spring,
In garden, glade, and wood!
Fresh from God’s hand seemed everything,
"And everything was good!"
Close by the door, the apple tree,
From many a fruitful bough,
Its richest blossoms spread for me;—
I feel their fragrance now!
The robin and the oriole,
(I loved them both the same),
Their sweetest songs to me did troll—
I think they knew my name!
A little brook, from hidden spring,
Ran babbling down the hill;
It seemed to me a living thing—
I hear its laughter still!
Ah! ours was bliss without alloy,
And friendship fondly leal;—
I brought it human love and joy—
It turned my water-wheel!
And, tired of play, what peace I found,
As the bright clouds sailed by,
Just to lie down upon the ground
And look into the sky!
Deep, deep, that look of calm delight,
So free from care and pain;—
Would God I might its holy height,
Its sweet repose, regain!
The meadow, and the old elm tree,
The woods, the waterfall—
Once more they all come back to me;
I see and hear them, all.
I see and hear them, and rejoice;
For forms and faces dear,
Lost long, long since to sight and voice,
Once more to me appear.
And hark! a little child again—
I hear, with heart abrim,
That tender, ravishing refrain—
The redbreast’s evening hymn!
So God be praised for that sweet dream,
My childhood’s bright, bright day—
When life was like a sunny stream
Left to its own glad way.
THE FIRST ROBIN.
Herald of the happy year,
Robin redbreast, art thou here?
Welcome to thy destined goal;
Welcome, songster of the soul!
Age and Childhood find, in thee,
Kindred bond of sympathy;
Hope and memory are one,
In thy song’s sweet unison.
Common freehold all hearts claim
In thy nature’s artless aim;
Best of priests and poets, thou,
Singing on the leafless bough.
Mead and mountain, wood and wold,
Wait the rapture manifold,
Which shall prove thee saint and seer—
Dearest minstrel of the year!
Every note like April rain—
Thou transmutest, in thy strain,
With