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LINES AMONG THE LEAVES. 



BY ELIZA COOK. 



Have ye heard the west wind singing, where the summer trees are springing? 



Have ye counted o'er the many tunes it knows ? 

 For the wide-winged spirit rangeth, and its ballad metre changeth 

 As it goes. 



A plaintive wail it maketh when the willow's tress it shaketh, 



Like new-bom infant sighing in its sleep ; 

 And the branches, low and slender, bend to list the strain so tender, 

 Till they weep. 



Another tale 't is telling, where the clustered elm is swelling 



With dancing joy, that seems to laugh outright ; 

 And the leaves, all bright and clapping, soand like human fingers snapping 

 With delight. 



The fitful key-note shifteth where the heavy oak uplifteth 



A diadem of acorns broad and high ; 

 And it chants with muffled roaring, Uke an eagle's wings in soaring 

 To the sky. 



Now the breeze is freshly wending, where the gloomy yew h benduig, 



To shade green graves and canopy the owl ; 

 And it gives a mournful whistle, that remindeth of the missal 

 And the cowl. 



Another lay it giveth where the spiral poplar liveth, 



Above the cresses, lily, flag, and rush ; 

 And it sings with hissing treble like the foam upon the pebble 

 In its gush. 



A varied theme it utters where the glossy date-leaf flutters — 



A loud and lightsome chant it yieldeth there ; 

 And the quiet, listening dreamer may believe that many a streamer 

 Flaps the air. 



It is sad and dreary hearing where the giant pine is rearing 



A lonely head, like hearse plume waved about ; 

 And it lurketh melancholy where the thick and sombre holly 

 Bristles out. 



It murmurs soft and mellow mid the light laburnums yellow. 



As lover's ditty chimed by rippling plash, 

 And deeper is its tiding, as it hurries, swiftly gliding 

 Through the ash. 



A roundelay of pleasure does it keep in merry measure, 



While rustling in the rich leaves of the beech. 

 As though a band of fairies were engaged in Mab's vagaries, 

 Out of reach 



Oh ! a bard of many breathings is the Wind in sylvan wreathings, 



O'er mountain tops and through the woodland groves, 

 Now fifing and now drumming — now howling and now humming, 

 As it roves. 



Oh ! are not human bosoms like these things of leaves and blossoms, 



Where hallowed whispers come to cheer and rouse ? 

 Is there no mystic stirring in our hearts, like sweet wind whirring 

 In the boughs ? 



Thongh that wind a strange tone waketh in every kome it maketh, 



And the maple tree responds not as the larch, 

 Yet Harmony is playing round all the green arms swaying 

 'Neath Heaven's arch. 



Oh ! what can be the teaching of these forest voices preaching ? 



'T is that a brother's creed, though not as mine. 

 May blend about God's altar, and help to fill the psalter 

 That's divine. 



