THE HUNTER'S SERENADE. THY bower is finished, fairest! Fit bower for hunter's bride Where old woods overshadow The green savanna's side. I've wandered long, and wandered far, And never have I met, In all this lovely western land, A spot so lovely yet. But I shall think it fairer, When thou art come to bless, With thy sweet smile and silver voice, Its silent loveliness. For thee the wild grape glistens, On sunny knoll and tree, The slim papaya ripens Its yellow fruit for thee. For thee the duck, on glassy stream, The prairie-fowl shall die, My rifle for thy feast shall bring Fierce, beautiful, and fleet, I know, for thou hast told me, When our wide woods and mighty lawns Bloom to the April skies, The earth has no more gorgeous sight To show to human eyes. In meadows red with blossoms, All summer long, the bee Murmurs, and loads his yellow thighs, For thee, my love, and me. Or wouldst thou gaze at tokens Of ages long ago— Our old oaks stream with mosses, And sprout with mistletoe; And mighty vines, like serpents, climb The giant sycamore; And trunks, o'erthrown for centuries, Cumber the forest floor; And in the great savanna, The solitary mound, Built by the elder world, o'erlooks The loneliness around. Come, thou hast not forgotten Thy pledge and promise quite, With many blushes murmured, Come, the young violets crowd my door, And at my silent window-sill And the night-sparrow trills her song, THE GREEK BOY. GONE are the glorious Greeks of old, Their bones are mingled with the mould, The forms they hewed from living stone And, scattered with their ashes, show Yet fresh the myrtles there-the springs Gush brightly as of yore; Flowers blossom from the dust of kings, There nature moulds as nobly now, And copies still the martial form That braved Platea's battle storm. Boy! thy first looks were taught to seek Their heaven in Hellas' skies; Her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek, Her sunshine lit thine eyes; Thine ears have drunk the woodland strains Heard by old poets, and thy veins Swell with the blood of demigods, That slumber in thy country's sods. Now is thy nation free-though late- Broke, ere thy spirit felt its weight, And Greece, decayed, dethroned, doth see A shoot of that old vine that made The nations silent in its shade. |