THE BEAVER MEADOW. 



'Tis a meadow green as an emerald's heart, 



In the heart of an emerald wood, 

 And a crystal stream doth idle and dart. 



Through the sun-swept solitude. 

 The orioles glance like flashes of fire 



From foliaged limb to limb, 

 And the harsh frogs pipe in a ceaseless choir 



From the marsh when day grows dim. 



When the grey cold dawn in her robes of mist, 



O'er meadow and wood and stream, 

 T^ooks forth from her tower of amethyst. 



She sees the wild duck gleam 

 In the slender reeds that have waded out, 



Far out in the sinuous brook, 

 And she hears the loon, like a wary scout, 



Shrill keen from some secret nook. 



Long years ago, when our fathers first, 



Fearless and full of hope, 

 With love of venture and wealth athirst, 



O'er river and mountain slope 

 To this woodland came, a lakelet lay 



As bright as a burnished shield, 

 Where now the rivulet waters play. 



And the loud frogs pipe concealed. 



And a wondrous town with its sunward domes 



And wonderful people stood 

 Where these deep-mouthed frogs have now their homes 



And the wild ducks lurk and brood. 

 Not the carven fronts nor the lordly halls 



Of the ancient Aztec sway, 

 More wonderful were than the stately walls 



Of this town now passed away. 



