Читать книгу Niagara, and Other Poems - Benjamin Copeland - Страница 5

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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.