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312 LYDIA JANE PEIRSON. To lull them to repose. Look now, and see How every mountain, with its leafy plume, Or Rocky helm, with crest of giant pine, Is veil'd with floating amber, and gives back The loving smile of the departing sun, And nods a calm adieu. Hark! from the dell Where sombre hemlocks sigh unto the stream, Which with its everlasting harmony Returns each tender whisper; what a gush Of liquid melody, like soft, rich tones Of flute and viol, mingling in sweet strains Of love and rapture, float away toward heaven. 'T is the Ædoleo from her sweet place, Singing to nature's God the perfect hymn Of nature's innocence. Does it not seem That earth is list'ning to that evening song? There's such a hush on mountain, plain, and streams. Seems not the sun to linger in his bower On yonder leafy summit, puring forth His glowing adoration unto God, Blent with that evening hymn? while every flower Bows gracefully, and mingles with the strain Its balmy breathing. Have you look's on aught In all the panoply and bustling pride Of the dense city with its worldly throng, So soothing, so delicious to the soul, So like the ante-chamber of high heaven, As this old forest, with the emerald crown Which it has worn for ages, glittering With the bright halo of departing day, While from its bosom living seraphim Are hymning gratitude and love to God? JULIA H. SCOTT. THIS lady, whose maiden name was Kinney, resided in Towanda, Bradford County, Pennsylvania, a place whose wild romantic beauty has been celebrated by many of her sister-poets. She died in 1842, and, soon after this event, A Volume of Poems was collected from her writings, and published in Boston. Her style was simple and melodious; the following exquisite lines to My Child are full of natural imagery, poetic thought, and unaffected feeling. MY CHILD. "There is one who has loved me debarr'd from the day." THE foot of Spring is on yon blue-topp'd mountain, Leaving its green prints 'neath each spreading tree; Her voice is heard beside the swelling fountain, Giving sweet tones to its wild melody. From the warm South she brings unnumber'd roses To greet with smiles the eye of grief and care; Her balmy breath on the worn brow reposes, And her rich gifts are scatter'd everywhere: I heed them not, my child! In the low vale the snow-white daisy springeth, The golden dandelion by its side, The eglantine a dewy fragrance flingeth To the soft breeze that wanders far and wide. The hyacinth and polyanthus render, From their deep hearts, an offering of love; And fresh May-pinks, and half-blown lilacs, tender Their grateful homage to the skies above: I heed them not, my child! 27 (313)
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 11:24:27