The wizard of the woods is he;
For in his daily round,
Where'er he finds a rotting tree,
He makes the timber sound.
...
Upon my soul,
O wicked mole,
I'll punish thy misdoing!
'O pardon me!-
...
Blood-shotten through the bleak gigantic trees
The sunset, o'er a wilderness of snow,
Startles the wolfish winds that wilder grow
...
Full many a noonday nook I know
Where memory is fain to go
And wait in silence till the shade
Of sleep the solitude invade.
...
No need, O weary traveller,
To seek the ocean far;
For here, whene'er the coast is clear,
The schooners cross the bar.
...
No mother minds so tenderly
Her babe, to mirror back its smiles,
As moves the never-resting sea
About a slumbering isle.
...
Methinks, when first the nightingale
Was mated to thy deathless song,
That Sappho with emotion pale,
Amid the Olympian throng,
...
Though from the waking world withdrawn,
Night's boundary to keep,
Thou floodest with a softer dawn
The hemisphere of Sleep.
...
When God had made a host of them,
One little flower still lacked a stem
To hold its blossom blue;
...
I
Long, long before the Babe could speak,
When he would kiss his mother's cheek
And to her bosom press,
...