105
How sweet around that silent lake,
As friendship guides, your way to take,
And cull the plants whose glowing heads
Bend meekly o'er their native beds,
And own the hand that paints the flow'r,
That deals the sunshine and the show'r,
That hears the sparrow in its fall,
Is kind, and good, and just to all.
Or see the sun, with morning beam,
First gild the tow'r, the tree, the stream,
And moving to his nightly rest,
Press through the portal of the west,
Close wrapt within his mantle fold
Of glowing purple dipp'd in gold;
And then to mark the queen of night,
Like some lone vestal pure and bright,
Move slowly from her silent nook,
And gild the scenes that he forsook.
And then that deep recess to find,
Where the green boughs so close are twin'd;
For there within that silent spot,
As all secluded—all forgot,
The fond enthusiast free may soar,
The sage be buried in his lore;
The poet muse, the idler sleep,
The pensive mourner bend and weep,
And fear no eye or footstep rude
Shall break that holy solitude.
