How oft that day, with fond delay, I sought the maple's shadow, And sang with Burns the hours away, Forgetful of the meadow. Bees hummed, birds twittered, overhead I heard the squirrels leaping, The good dog listened while I read, And wagged his tail in keeping. I watched him while in sportive mood I read "_The Twa Dogs_" story, And half believed he understood The poet's allegory. Sweet day, sweet songs! The golden hours Grew brighter for that singing, From brook and bird and meadow flowers A dearer welcome bringing. New light on home-seen Nature beamed, New glory over Woman; And daily life and duty seemed No longer poor and common. I woke to find the simple truth Of fact and feeling better Than all the dreams that held my youth A still repining debtor, That Nature gives her handmaid, Art, The themes of sweet discoursing; The tender idyls of the heart In every tongue rehearsing. Why dream of lands of gold and pearl, Of loving knight and lady, When farmer boy and barefoot girl Were wandering there already? I saw through all familiar things The romance underlying; The joys and griefs that plume the wings Of Fancy skyward flying. I saw the same blithe day return, The same sweet fall of even, That rose on wooded Craigie-burn, And sank on crystal Devon. I matched with Scotland's heathery hills The sweetbrier and the clover; With Ayr and Doon, my native rills, Their wood-hymns chanting over. O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen, I saw the Man uprising; No longer common or unclean, The child of God's baptizing! With clearer eyes I saw the worth Of life among the lowly; The Bible at his Cotter's hearth Had made my own more holy. And if at times an evil strain, To lawless love appealing, Broke in upon the sweet refrain Of pure and healthful feeling, It died upon the eye and ear, No inward answer gaining; No heart had I to see or hear The discord and the staining. Let those who never erred forget His worth, in vain bewailings; Sweet Soul of Song! I own my debt Uncancelled by his failings! Lament who will the ribald line Which tells his lapse from duty, How kissed the maddening lips of wine Or wanton ones of beauty; But think, while falls that shade between The erring one and Heaven, That he who loved like Magdalen, Like her may be forgiven. Not his the song whose thunderous chime Eternal echoes render; The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme, And Milton's starry splendor! But who his human heart has laid To Nature's bosom nearer? Who sweetened toil like him, or paid To love a tribute dearer? Through all his tuneful art, how strong The human feeling gushes The very moonlight of his song Is warm with smiles and blushes! Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, So "Bonnie Doon" but tarry; Blot out the Epic's stately rhyme, But spare his Highland Mary! 1854. TO GEORGE B. CHEEVER