POETRY.
IN A.RCADY.
Nor a movement, not a murmur in the wind ; Not a bird-note, not a whisper in the air ; Not a fancy, not a feeling in the mind, But the one thought, "It is very, very fair."
And the perfume, what a perfume, of the pine And the azure, what an azure, there below, Where the waters in a long and creamy line Come in wavelets ! Ah, the Ocean has its snow.
Oh, the beauty of the downward-dropping rills, As they fell, or seem to fall, without a sound ! The enchantment, old enchantment, of the hills, With the mystery of silence all around!
As if Spirits of the mountain and the deep, Fancy's loveliest creations, still were there, Who might wake up any moment from their sleep, Nymph and Naiad, beauty's semblance, yet more fair : Something dearer than the stillness of the wood ; Something livelier than the radiance of the green ; Who might teach us in a voice we understood, That a heart is there in Nature, though unseen : That a mother's heart is beating in her grace ; She bath wisdom, she is wonderfully wise; There is purpose in each wrinkle of her cheek ; Love is lurking in the glances of her eyes.
And the wildness has departed from her life; Peace is shining on her battlefields of old ; Here the mountain tells of earthquake and of strife; There the valley has its cornfield, and its gold.
So we lingered, till the landscape seemed to blend With the golden haze of sunset far away: And we knew not the beginning from the end : All was passing with the passing of the day.
All was passing, yet it cometh oft again In the evening, like a well-beloved guest, That remembrance of a beauty without stain,
Of a world just for a moment at its best.
Not a movement, not a murmur in the wind! Not a bird-note, not a whisper in the air ! But engraven as a picture on the mind Still I see it. It was very, very fair. A. G. B.
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