A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics.
VOL. XXI.-JANUARY, 1868. — NO. CXXIII.
AN IDYL OF BEARCAMP WATER.
ALONG the roadside, like the flowers of gold
That tawny Incas in their gardens grew,
Heavy with sunshine droops the golden-rod,
And the red pennons of the cardinal-flowers
Hang motionless upon their upright staves.
The sky is hot and hazy, and the wind,
Wing-weary with its long flight from the south,
Unfelt; yet, closely scanned, yon maple leaf
With faintest motion, as one stirs in dreams,
Confesses it. The locust by the wall
Stabs the noon-silence with his sharp alarm.
A single hay-cart down the dusty road
Creaks slowly, with its driver fast asleep
On the load's top. Against the neighboring hill,
Huddled along the stone wall's shady side,
The sheep show white, as if a snow-drift still
Defied the dog-star. Through the open door
A drowsy smell of flowers-gray heliotrope,
And white sweet-clover, and shy mignonette-
Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lends
To the pervading symphony of peace.
No time is this for hands long overworn
To task their strength; and (unto Him be praise
Who giveth quietness!) the stress and strain
Of years that did the work of centuries
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by TICknor and Firine in the Clack)- Or