MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Places of nestling green for poets made.-Story of Rimini. I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill, The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. shorn, And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves; Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them; Moist, cool, and green; and shade the violets, A filbert-hedge with wild-briar overtwined, And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind Upon their summer thrones; there too should be The frequent-chequer of a youngling tree, That with a score of light green brethren shoots From the quaint mossiness of aged roots: Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters, Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters, The spreading blue-bells: it may haply mourn That such fair clusters should be rudely torn From their fresh beds, and scatter'd thoughtlessly By infant hands, left on the path to die. Open afresh your round of starry folds, Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, That in these days your praises should be sung Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight: With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings. Linger awhile upon some bending planks That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, And watch intently Nature's gentle doings: They will be found softer than ring-doves' cooings. How silent comes the water round that bend! Not the minutest whisper does it send To the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass. Why you might read two sonnets, ere they reach To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds; Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle If you but scantily hold out the hand, That very instant not one will remain : But turn your eye, and they are there again. The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, And cool themselves among the emerald tresses; The while they cool themselves, they freshness give, And moisture, that the bowery green may live : Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings, Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. Were I in such a place, I sure should pray That nought less sweet might call my thoughts away, Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown Fanning away the dandelion's down; Than the light music of her nimble toes How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught Playing in all her innocence of thought! O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, |