My Delight Poem by Samuel Alfred Beadle

I can but feel a swell of soul,
Over my vision's broader scope,
When from the city's mart I stroll
And climb along the northern slope,
Of the Heights of Lauderdale.


Hard by, a heath of Lauderdale,
A verdant sweep of broken lea,
Rolls into knolls from out the vale,
And undulates and swells a sea
Of billowy emerald waves.


Far off on that sea there lies,
North of the Heights of Lauderdale,
Meridian, 'neath a haze of skies,
And seems, upon that distant vale,
Fleet like, anchored on the deep.


How often have I lingered there,
To have my simple thought dome teem,
With fancy's fictions of the fair,
And catch a glimpse of beauty beam,
Scintillate and dazzle there.


And when beneath some lofty pine,
I muse on Nature's loveliness,
As oft it seems something divine,
Places a rare peculiar stress,
Of melody in the pines.


Among the pines of Lauderdale,
A whispered cadence sighs along,
And when the winds become a gale,
The verdant hills burst into song
And sweetly soughs ravien.


And far away down the cultured vale,
Echoing goes the evening hymn,
Of some rude swain of Lauderdale;
Soothing and sweet, the lay of him
Chimes with the metre wild.


The metre wild, the metre wild,
How many an eve I loiter where,
By its sweet melody beguiled,
I muse on nature's charms and share
Her metrical symposium.


Sublime the scene when twilight flies,
Up through the green tines of the pines,
As, on the deep vermillion skies,
Day, weary and worn, declines,
Beaming last on Lauderdale.


There, looking on him spent, supine,
How oft have I been filled with awe,
To see his gold on emerald shine,
And crimson fingered evening draw
The starry curtains of the night.


Again to hear the wild anthem,
The intonations of the pines,
And all the mystic airs of them
A-soughing through the vast confines
Of Lauderdale is my delight.