An old fallen tree made a foot-bridge across That led to this hiding—this sanctum of mine. Bright fern fringes bordered its soft rug of moss— A wild grape had thatched with a clambering vine That hid for my coming bright sparkles of dew. O, bower of beauty, so temptingly cool! ’Twas the home of the fairies and they only knew The hours spent there that were stolen from school. The brook-bordered fields of that moderate farm Had each, for my heart, individual charm.— The skies that bent over had glories unknown To all other lands, even Italy’s own. More golden its sunsets than any since seen:— Its shadowy woodland, so rich in its green, Had springs purling down in a dusky ravine: There oft at the fount, where the waters distilled, My leaf-fashioned cup I have held to be filled. O, nectar twould be if again I could drink Of the sparkles that fell there like pearls from its brink, As it tinkled down sweetly from its rock-basined source To join with its peers in their river-ward course. In those shadowy depths, hid away from the world, Most delicate forms of the fronds were uncurled: Spring-beauties, anemonies, clematis white, With violets, bluebells and maiden-hair fern,— There were some of them ever to keep the spot bright, To waft me good-bye and to greet my return. Then the hillside, our play-ground—I never can tell Its riches of beauty in bower and dell. The sunrise would kiss with its first ruddy glow Then slip to the river that murmured below And lighting its ripples with flashes of gold It made all the valley a joy to behold. That River! It ever kept time with my heart,— Grew into my soul, of my life was a part. It echoed my laughter, was sad when I wept— When drowsy it lulled me with song till I slept.— ’Twas playmate and teacher, companion and friend, From the “deep-hole” that mirrored the trees at “the bend” To that spot of enchantment, where the willows bent low To whisper their love. There the river went slow As if hushing its wonted, wild, rollicking flow To linger and listen—the story, so sweet, ’Twould have all the zephyr-swayed branches repeat. But the loveliest view from the home on the hill— The one that could ever enrapture and thrill, Was a calm summer eve with the stars beaming thro’ From the unclouded depths of the fathomless blue,— “The city of God” filling vastness above, Each mansion aglow with the light of His love. Enhancing the beauty a broad, rising moon, That followed a day with a languorous noon— A day that in going left the sun-door ajar, When a breeze, that was born of a rain-cloud afar, Had stolen thro, softly, with the great evening star, And whispered a vow to the languishing flowers To bring them, ere morning, refreshing in showers.