TO THE WILD COLUMBINE. 
Sweet CoLEMBmE, what liappy thouglit 
Is by tby lovely image brouglit ; 
Tby nodding bead says, “Come and see 
Tbe place where tbon bast play’d witb me ” 
And go witb tbee I gladly will, 
Tbe pebbly path is winding still, 
Tbe bonse is standing by tbe wood, 
Where in my childhood’s days it stood. 
Tbe poplar, firm, erect, and tall. 
Beside tbe rough and ragged wall. 
Though tbe most soldier-like of trees. 
Stands shivering from tbe sbgbtest breeze. 
Tbe little mount bath tales to tell. 
That always please my fancy well ; 
While from tbe hollow just beyond, 
Comes music from tbe shaded pond. 
Where harmless frogs, in safe retreat. 
Their tale monotonous repeat. 
And in tbe quiet Sabbath air, 
I bear tbe bell’s loud call to prayer. 
As by long travel half-subdued. 
Its tones thrill through tbe leafy wood. 
I bear tbe cattle’s distant low 
Come swelling from tbe vale below. 
Tbe geese still gabble, — as they eat 
Witb slanting bill tbe herbage sweet, — 
Tbe story which they all commend. 
But none save geese can comprehend. 
( 13 ) 
