Republican Herald

SELECTED POETRY.
From The Atlantic Souvenir for 1831:
MORNING AMONG THE HILLS.
How beautiful is this serene repose
Of nature 'mid her mountain solitudes!
How cheering to the heart that covets rest.
The cooling freshness of the morning hour,
In quiet and seclusion, while the mists
Yet hang upon the bosom of the hills,
And clothe the verdant foliage with a veil
Of light and airy texture. There's a soft
And gentle flush upon the ambient air,
Which tells the holy hour, when day and night
Have met and kiss'd each other : and the pure
And honeyed fragrance, that breathes all around,
Betrays where dawn has dallied with the rose,
And danced among the scented clover tops.
The flowers uphold their cups of nectar'd dew
A morning offering to the glorious sun,
When he shall rise in beauty to receive
The tribute they have glean'd from moonlight airs.
And night's refreshing vapours. Not a sound
Is heard amid the quiet of the scene,
Save the blithe chirping of the joyous birds
That nestle in the thickets, and are forth
At the first blush of dawn, as if they were
The happiest of all creatures, drinking in,
From nature's purest fount, the draught of life
Unmix'd with care's alloy. The river too,
Whose bosom is tranquillity, glides on
As silent as a fay at midnight's hush,
Among the gleaming flowers. Its waves are still
So still and calm they scarcely seem to flow,
As if indeed the water spirit's wand
Had charm'd them into slumber, deep and pure,
Such as the animal creation held
When night was in the heavens. Along its banks
The towering rocks, and foliage-cover'd hills,
And bright green trees are shadow'd with a true
And faithful portraiture, as though a scene
As fair and beautiful had framed itself
Beneath the lucid waters, on whose breast,
Emblem alike of peace and poesy,
The white plumed swan glides pensively along,
And scarcely stirs the stream in which she laves.
All things conspire to harmony : the air,
The earth, the waters, every element
Is redolent of purity and peace
As if in this retirement nature ne'er
Had known the marring blight that waits upon
Her fairest and her loveliest. Oh the bliss,
The dear delight of unadulterated scenes,
Where. in the deep seclusion of the wild.
Quiet distils, with soft and gentle power,
Like dew, upon the landscape. Could man know
The real estimate and worth of peace,
How much of happiness is in that word—
Of happiness, he boon for which he seeks
With such a thrilling ardour—scenes like these
Would own a fresh enticement, that should woo
His steps from riot, revelry and noise,
To dwell among the woodland haunts, where birds
Mingle their carols with the early breeze;
Or lead him, 'mid the rich perfume of flowers,
To drink enjoyments at her fairest fount,
Where morning wakes among the dewy hills,