A CHAPTER ON FLOWERS. 13 



Earth speaks in many voices : from the roar 

 Of the wild cataract, whose ceaseless din 

 Shakes the far forest and resounding shore, 

 To the meek rivulet, which seems to win 

 Its modest way amid spring's pleasant bowers, 

 Singing its quiet tune to charm earth's perfumed flowers. 



Earth speaks in many voices : from the song 



Of the free bird which soars to Heaven's high porch, 



As if on joy's full tide it swept along, 



To the low hum which wakens when the torch 



Summons the insect myriads of the night 

 To sport their little hour and perish in the light. 



Earth speaks in many voices : music breathes 

 In the sweet murmur of the summer breeze 



That plays around the wildflower's pendant wreaths, 

 Or swells its diapason 'mid the trees 



When eve's cold shadow steals o'er lawn and lea, 

 And day's glad sounds give place to twilight minstrelsy. 



Reader, did you ever spend a day in the woods, loitering the 

 hours away amid sights and sounds like these, and wending 

 your course homeward at nightfall, with a handfull of flowers, 

 a bunch of moss, or a curiously knotted stick, as your only 

 visible reward ; while the wise and practical notabilities who call 

 themselves your friends, would shake their heads, half in scorn 

 half in pity, of your idleness and folly ? And did you not feel 

 that the patience with which you listened to the lessons of 

 narrow-minded worldliness, was gained from the quiet teachings 

 of Nature in her woodland temple ? 



