160 HENRY KIEKE WHITE's POEMS. 



TO CONTEMPLATION 



Come, pensive sage, who lovest to dwell 

 In some retired Lapponian cell, 

 Where, far from noise and riot rude, 

 Resides sequestered Solitude. 

 Come, and o'er ray longing soul 

 Throw thy dark and russet stole, 

 And open to my duteous eyes. 

 The volume of thy mysteries. 



I will meet thee on the hill, 



AVhere, with printless footstep still, 



The Morning, in her buskin gray, 



Springs upon her eastern way ; 



While the frolic zephyrs stir. 



Playing with the gossamer, 



And, on ruder pinions borne, 



Shake the dew-drops from the thorn. 



There, as o'er the fields we pass, 



Brushing with hasty feet the grass, 



We will startle from her nest, 



The lively lark with speckled breast. 



And hear the floating clouds among 



Her gale-transported matin song, 



Or on the upland stile embowered, 



With fragrant hawthorn snowy flowered, 



Will sauntering sit, and listen still, 



To the herdsman's oaten quill, 



Wafted from the plain below ; 



Or the heifers frequent low ; 



Or the milkmaid in the grove, 



Singing of one that died for love. 



Or when the noontide heats oppress, 



We will seek the dark recess, 



Where, in the embowered translucent sfream, 



The cattle shun the sultry beam, 



