THE WH ITE BAY. 



GORDONIA PUBESCENS. 



OH, ye who love to overhang the springs, 



And stand by living waters, ye whose boughs 



Make beautiful the rocks o'er which they play, 



Who pile with foliage the great hills, and rear 



A paradise upon the lonely plain, 



Trees of the forest and the open field! 



Have ye no sense of being? Does the air, 



The pure air, which I breathe with gladness, pass 



In gushes o'er your delicate lungs, your leaves, 



All unenjoyed? When on your winter's sleep 



The sun shines warm, have ye no dreams of spring? 



And when the glorious spring-time comes at last, 



Have ye no joy of all your bursting buds, 



And fragrant blooms, and melody of birds, 



To which your young leaves shiver? Do ye strive 



And wrestle with the winds, yet know it not? 



Feel ye no glory in your strength when he, 



The exhausted Blusterer, flies beyond the hills 



And leaves you stronger yet? 



Nay, doubt we not that under the rough rind, 

 In the green veins of these fair growths of earth, 

 There dwells a nature that receives delight 

 From all the gentle processes of life, 

 And shrinks from loss of being. Dim and faint 

 May be the sense of pleasure and of pain, 

 As in our dreams; but, haply, real still. 



Bryant. 



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