  INDIAN SUMMERDOWN from the blue the sun has driven, And stands between the earth and heaven, In robes of smouldering flame: A smoking cloud before him hung, A mystic veil, for which no tongue Of earth can find a name; And o'er him bends the vault of blue, With shadowy faces looking through The azure deep profound; The stillness of eternity,— A glory and a mystery, Encompass him around. The air is thick with golden haze, The woods are in a dreamy maze, The air enchanted seems; Have we not left the realms of care, And entered in the regions fair We see in blissful dreams? O, what a sacred stillness broods Above the awful solitudes! Peace hangs with dove-like mien; She's on the earth, she's in the air, O, she is brooding everywhere— Sole spirit of the scene! And yonder youths and maidens seem As moving in a heavenly dream, Through regions rich and rare; Have not their very garments caught A tone of spiritual thought, A still, a Sabbath air? Yon cabins by the forest side Are all transformed and glorified! O, surely grief nor care, Nor poverty with strife and din, Nor anything like vulgar sin, Can ever enter there! The ox, let loose to roam at will, Is lying by the water still; And on yon spot of green The very herd forget to graze, And look in wonder and amaze Upon the mystic scene. And yonder Lake Ontario lies, As if that wonder and surprise Had hushed her heaving breast— And lies there with her awful eye Fixed on the quiet of the sky Like passion soothed to rest; Yon very maple feels the hush— That trance of wonder, that doth rush Through nature everywhere— And meek and saint-like there she stands With upturned eye and folded hands, As if in silent prayer. O Indian Summer, there's in thee A stillness, a serenity— A spirit pure and holy, Which makes October's gorgeous train Seem but a pageant light and vain, Untouched by melancholy! But who can paint the deep serene— The holy stillness of thy mien— The calm that's in thy face, Which make us feel, despite of strife, And all the turmoil of our life— Earth is a holy place? Here, in the woods, we'll talk with thee, Here, in thy forest sanctuary We'll learn thy simple lore; And neither poverty nor pain, The strife of tongues, the thirst for gain, Shall ever vex us more. MERRY mad-cap on the tree, Who so happy are as thee! Is there aught so full of fun, Half so happy 'neath the sun, With thy merry whiskodink— Bobolink! Bobolink! With thy mates, such merry meetings, Such queer jokes and funny greetings, O, such running and such chasing, O, such banter and grimacing, Thou'rt the wag of wags the pink— Bobolink! Bobolink! How you tumble 'mong the hay, Romping all the summer's day; Now upon the wing all over In and out among the clover— Far too happy e'er to think— Bobolink! Bobolink! Now thou'rt on the apple tree, Crying, "Listen unto me!" Now upon the mossy banks, Where thou cuttest up such pranks— One would swear thou wert in drink— Bobolink! Bobolink! Nothing canst thou know of sorrow, As to-day shall be to-morrow; Never dost thou dream of sadness— All thy life a merry madness, Never may thy spirits sink— Bobolink! Bobolink! AROUND the world the fame is blown Of fighting heroes, dead and gone; But we've a hero of our own— The man who rose from nothing. He's a magician great and grand; The forests fled at his command; And here he said, "Let cities stand!"— The man who rose from nothing. And in our legislative hall He towering stands alone, like Saul, "A head and shoulders over all,"— The man who rose from nothing. His efforts he will ne'er relax, His faith in figures and in facts, And always calls an axe an axe,— The man who rose from nothing. The gentleman in word and deed; And short and simple in his creed; "Fear God and help the soul in need!" The man who rose from nothing. In other lands he's hardly known, For he's a product of our own; Could grace a shanty or a throne,— The man who rose from nothing. Here's to the land of lakes and pines, On which the sun of freedom shines, Because we meet on all our lines The man who rose from nothing. |
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