



HOOD. 
Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow, 
Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground, 
With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow, 
The Gentian nods in dewy slumbers bound. 
The little birds upon the hill-side lonely 
Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray ; 
Silent as a sweet wandering thought, that only 
Shows its bright wings and softly glides away. 
The scentless flowers in the warm sunlight dreaming, 
Forget to breathe their fulness of delight, 
And through the trancéd woods soft airs are streaming, 
Still as the dew-fall of the Summer night. 
So in my heart, a sweet, unwonted feeling 
Stirs like the wind in ocean’s hollow shell, 
Through all its secret chambers sadly stealing, 
Yet finds no word its mystic charm to tell. 
The Moon, 
Hood. 
j OTHER of light ! how fairly dost thou go 
Over those hoary crests, divinely led! 
Art thou that Huntress of the silver bow 
Fabled of old? Or rather, dost thou tread 



