Part 8

Dear friend, you are only dreaming, Your castle so stately and fair Is only a fanciful structure,-- A castle in the air.

Perchance you are right. I know not If a phantom it may be; But yet, in my inmost heart, I feel That it lives, and lives for me.

For when clouds and darkness are round me, And my heart is heavy with care, I steal me away from the noisy crowd, To dwell in my castle fair.

There are servants to do my bidding; There are servants to heed my call; And I, with a master's air of pride, May pace through the vaulted hall.

And I envy not the monarchs With cities under their sway; For am I not, in my own right, A monarch as proud as they?

What matter, then, if to others My castle a phantom may be, Since I feel, in the depths of my own heart, That it is not so to me?

APPLE-BLOSSOMS.

I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs, In the fragrant orchard close, And around me floats the scented air, With its wave-like tidal flows. I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss, And call no king my peer; For is not this the rare, sweet time, The blossoming time of the year?

I lie on a couch of downy grass, With delicate blossoms strewn, And I feel the throb of Nature's heart Responsive to my own. Oh, the world is fair, and God is good, That maketh life so dear; For is not this the rare, sweet time, The blossoming time of the year?

I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs, The delicate blue of the sky, And the changing clouds with their marvellous tints That drift so lazily by. And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my brain, And Heaven, it seemeth near; Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time, The blossoming time of the year?

SUMMER HOURS.

It is the year's high noon, The earth sweet incense yields, And o'er the fresh, green fields Bends the clear sky of June.

I leave the crowded streets, The hum of busy life, Its clamor and its strife, To breathe thy perfumed sweets.

O rare and golden hours! The bird's melodious song, Wavelike, is borne along Upon a strand of flowers.

I wander far away, Where, through the forest trees, Sports the cool summer breeze, In wild and wanton play.

A patriarchal elm Its stately form uprears, Which twice a hundred years Has ruled this woodland realm.

I sit beneath its shade, And watch, with careless eye, The brook that babbles by, And cools the leafy glade.

In truth I wonder not, That in the ancient days The temples of God's praise Were grove and leafy grot.

The noblest ever planned, With quaint device and rare, By man, can ill compare With these from God's own hand.

Pilgrim with way-worn feet, Who, treading life's dull round, No true repose hast found, Come to this green retreat.

For bird, and flower, and tree, Green fields, and woodland wild, Shall bear, with voices mild, Sweet messages to thee.

JUNE.

Throw open wide your golden gates, O poet-landed month of June, And waft me, on your spicy breath, The melody of birds in tune.

O fairest palace of the three, Wherein Queen Summer holdeth sway, I gaze upon your leafy courts From out the vestibule of May.

I fain would tread your garden walks, Or in your shady bowers recline; Then open wide your golden gates, And make them mine, and make them mine.

LITTLE CHARLIE.

A VIOLET grew by the river-side, And gladdened all hearts with its bloom; While over the fields, on the scented air, It breathed a rich perfume. But the clouds grew dark in the angry sky, And its portals were opened wide; And the heavy rain beat down the flower That grew by the river-side.

Not far away in a pleasant home, There lived a little boy, Whose cheerful face and childish grace Filled every heart with joy. He wandered one day to the river's verge, With no one near to save; And the heart that we loved with a boundless love Was stilled in the restless wave.