Then the murmur of waters—the ripple in view, The robings of Nature, aglitter with dew, The sway of the trees, and the rose-petals strewn— The kiss of the breeze, that has breath of the June. Just sit in our group on the balcony there And dream of this scene, inexpressibly fair (Remember this gable looks square at the noon): How the gateways of glory thrown wide by the moon Could pour their white floods on the beautiful scene— What charm in the mingling of shadow and sheen! The river went north in its tortuous trend And wound thro’ the valley with many a bend. This lake-like expanse, deep and smoothe, as you see, Lying right in the pathway, ’tween Luna and me, On an evening like this seemed a great burnished glass. The Island shore here, had a margin of grass— The round little cove cutting into its edge Grew ferns on its banks and was dotted with sedge. In the far-reaching shadows of lofty old trees This part of the Island was hid from the noon; Its quiet invited to slumberous ease; Here the River flowed gently as Afton or Doon. Kind Nature had woven a pleachy thick screen Of forest and vines that were standing between, And made this remote from the town and its mills. The zephyr-stirred leaves with their mystical chant— That soft, lulling murmur, that muffles and stills— Hushed the tumult and jar of the noisy “old plant” And made this a spot ever calm and serene, Fit temple for worship, embosomed in green. Here, the river seemed charmed by some mythical lore— It loitered along, seemed reluctant to pass, While eddying wavelets crept up on the shore And kissed, with their cool lips, the velvety grass. On, slowly it flows until reaching a place Where a glimpse may be caught of the swift running “Race;” There it breaks into foam with a current so wild— They rush to the meeting like mother and child. With a plaint in its story that the mother-stream thrills, Race babbles and tells how it toiled at the mills—Was prisonned and held, by the strength of the flume— Was power that wrought on the spindle and loom. Received in her bosom with loving embrace They mingle their songs, then, the River and Race, Delighting us all with their musical tones, While silver-capped ripples go dancing o’er stones. * * * * * Aye, “Hill-crest” had beauty beyond all compare, But words can ne’er picture how wondrously fair For one whose misfortune ’tis not to have seen That river—that hillside—the trees in their green— Heard the music of waters, o’er pebbles at play, Or, lapping ’mong rocks and then swirling away— The brook leaping down to be lost in the stream As womanhood merges our girl-hood’s young dream—If her childhood’s bare feet have ne’er pressed that cool sod Where first I loved Nature, thro’ Nature her God. [Illustration: HILL-CREST HOME.] Lillies of the Valley.