I fain would drop, and gladly lose the rhyme

That lights my verse as ore lights up a mine,

If on my canvas I could curve and line

These quiet hills, and for an hour could say

I’d caught the warmth that on the landscape lay,

And that I dreamed as artists sometimes dream

Who blend their smiles with meadow, mound, and stream;

I am indeed a child worn out at play,

And weary of my game I long to stray

To other haunts, to other heights unknown,

And claim that Raphael’s brush as half my own.

Alas! forsaken by my Muse I turn

And backward glance—she beckons my return—

She floods the old familiar fields with light,

She bids me pause, take up my pen and—write.

’Tis scarce yet dawn, the leaves awake,

And in my brow the raindrops shake

The only remnant of the cloud

That pealed last night with thunder loud;

The only hint that here with flowers

Come sometimes shadows, sometimes showers.

The morning is a dream of bliss,

The breeze not unlike Love’s first kiss.

My soul expands—I drink the dew,

It gives my veins a deeper hue,

I halt where like a singing rill

The spring comes dripping o’er the hill.

I fill my cup again, again,

I drink for all—good health to men—

I hear the rising bell’s faint sound,

The porter makes his usual round.

And black-eyed Easter trips along

The kitchen porch with smile and song,

We find a poem in her churn,

An essence in her coffee urn;

We note the pale dyspeptic’s cheek

Is growing rosy, round, and sleek;

His torpid stomach forced to fast,

Here soon partakes the rich repast.

Breakfast over, ’round the springs

The guests assemble—some in swings—

And those of a romantic turn

Stroll two and two in search of fern.

For them the woods have more than speech,

A calm that to the heart doth reach,

That perfect peace of mind and soul

The sacred Book to us hath told.

I deem that morning holds more charms

Than day hides elsewhere in her arms;

But when she folds her shadowy tent,

And stars laugh in the firmament,

A newer phase doth nature take,

And in the heart new joys awake.

Some love the ball-room’s din and glare

As soft they trip some favorite air,

Some love to lounge about the spring,

Some frequent spots where hammocks swing,

And others saunter to the pool

Their tired limbs to bathe and cool.

But give me just the shady rook

That o’er the dripping spring doth look,

And let me watch the bright lamps flash,

And let me listen to the splash

Of the old spring that drips and drips,

To cool and cure the fever lips.

Who could forget the landlord’s vim

Or cottage rooms so neat and trim?

Who would not leave the city’s glare,

The heat, the dust, and stifling air—

Who would not part with all his wealth

To gain at Dripping Springs his health?