LINES TO SHARON SPRINGS.
FAIR Sharon! do your mountain arms contain
Room for another child who longs for thee?
And is there still an antidote for pain
In your clear streams? And are they gushing free
For all the feeble wanderers of the earth
Who choose to come and try their healing power?
And wasting forms who know their fame and worth,—
Do they still gather round them every hour?
Room for another child who longs for thee?
And is there still an antidote for pain
In your clear streams? And are they gushing free
For all the feeble wanderers of the earth
Who choose to come and try their healing power?
And wasting forms who know their fame and worth,—
Do they still gather round them every hour?
If so, receive me; for I fain would lay
My weary head upon your soothing breast;
Your gurgling waters now may charm away,
Or lull my ills and sorrows all to rest;
Your scenes again how much I'd joy to greet—
There list to nature's voice forever new,
Your birds and bees, that sip the nectar sweet
From blooming fields and echoing forests too.
My weary head upon your soothing breast;
Your gurgling waters now may charm away,
Or lull my ills and sorrows all to rest;
Your scenes again how much I'd joy to greet—
There list to nature's voice forever new,
Your birds and bees, that sip the nectar sweet
From blooming fields and echoing forests too.
Can health-imbuing breezes fan your brow,
So sheltered by rich canopies of green?
Methinks I see your wooded windings now,
And vein-like paths, where vistas intervene.
As on I pass through copse or silver grove,
I pause to see the merry children play;
With beaming looks of pleasure, hope, and love,
They find no thorns to mar their flowery way.
So sheltered by rich canopies of green?
Methinks I see your wooded windings now,
And vein-like paths, where vistas intervene.
As on I pass through copse or silver grove,
I pause to see the merry children play;
With beaming looks of pleasure, hope, and love,
They find no thorns to mar their flowery way.
I see, upon some rustic bench reclined,
A city belle, with languid face and eye;
Around her brow a rosy wreath is twined,
But still I hear the deep-drawn, heavy sigh.
Now I will wander where the Indians roam—
At least, my spirit seems to guide me there—
Who pitch their tent beneath the leafy dome
Planted by Him, and reared, too, by His care.
A city belle, with languid face and eye;
Around her brow a rosy wreath is twined,
But still I hear the deep-drawn, heavy sigh.
Now I will wander where the Indians roam—
At least, my spirit seems to guide me there—
Who pitch their tent beneath the leafy dome
Planted by Him, and reared, too, by His care.
Was this their home before the pale-face came
And drove their fathers to the spirit-land?
Are these primeval trees the very same
Which sheltered them, where now our dwellings stand?
Look yonder, there the dark-browed Indian goes,
And maiden, too, with sunshine in her hair—
She with her 'broidered baskets, he with bows;
Alas! how few are here for them to care.
And drove their fathers to the spirit-land?
Are these primeval trees the very same
Which sheltered them, where now our dwellings stand?
Look yonder, there the dark-browed Indian goes,
And maiden, too, with sunshine in her hair—
She with her 'broidered baskets, he with bows;
Alas! how few are here for them to care.
Their wigwams dot no more these glens or hills,
The camp-fire's blaze will never more be seen;
Were ye their mourners, ye cascades and rills,
Rippling along through gorge and dark ravine?
And will our dream, like theirs, so soon be o'er,
Your paths, fair Sharon, be by others trod?
What matter, if we reach the heavenly shore,
And rest upon the bosom of our God?
The camp-fire's blaze will never more be seen;
Were ye their mourners, ye cascades and rills,
Rippling along through gorge and dark ravine?
And will our dream, like theirs, so soon be o'er,
Your paths, fair Sharon, be by others trod?
What matter, if we reach the heavenly shore,
And rest upon the bosom of our God?