In the rich bottom of the dale, a grove Of sylvan giants woos the roving eye; The topmost limbs wave not their leaves above The shrubby brow of the declivity. Sometimes in musing indolence I stand, And drink in rapture from the peaceful scene, Or call up old rememberings from sleep; Then pluck with careless hand The ripe, red berries of the winter-green, That blush like rubies on the verdant steep. I watch the wild bees from my cool retreat Hum tunefully around the blue harebell, Before they enter to extract the sweet That lieth hidden in each fragrant cell. The small ground-squirrels leave their dwellings dark In the black, slaty soil, and gambol oft On an old oak with star-moss overgrown, And reft of branch and bark; While the fierce hawk forsakes his realm aloft, And settles on the blasted pine, his throne. Where the broad banks slope gently downward, grow The sassafras and other fragrant trees; And the bright lilies of the wave below, Give nods of recognition to the breeze. In mild accordance with the quiet scene, Beat tranquilly the pulses of my heart; While Fancy populates the place with fays, In robes of dazzling sheen, Who dance to merry music, and depart, While other fairy visions cheat the gaze. Around the sapling, like a verdant belt, The claspers of the honeysuckle twine; The Dryades of Argos never dwelt Within a bower more beautiful than mine. The humming-bird is near me on the wing, And the warm breeze with dulcet tone is stealing Through the green plumage of the hemlocks old— A spiritual thing; While butterflies round marshy spots are wheeling, Clad in their dazzling liveries of gold. The dusky lord of knife and hatchet roves Near my wild haunt of loveliness no more; He saw, amid his old ancestral groves, Throng pale invaders from a foreign shore— Then heard the sylvan monarchs, one by one, With all their leafy diadems laid low, And sought an undiscoverable lair Toward the dim, setting sun, With empty quiver and a broken bow, And gloomy brow contorted by despair.