look
   Upon the little murm’ring brook,
   Which, like a silver belt, winds round
   The hill, with oak and elm trees crowned. 
   But that majestic waterfall,
   In grandeur still surpasses all.

   Should Art and Genius there assemble,
   With solemn awe they’d stand and tremble;
   Than all their works, they’d own this greater,
   And bow before the great Creator.

TWILIGHT MUSINGS.

BY AMELIA.

   I wandered out one summer night,
     ’Twas when my years were few,
   The wind was singing in the light,
     And I was singing too.

   One fleecy cloud upon the air,
     Was all that met my eyes,
   It floated like an angel there,
     Between me and the skies.

   I clapped my hands and warbled wild,
     As here and there I flew,
   For I was but a careless child,
     And did as children do.

   I heard the laughing wind behind,
     ’Twas playing with my hair;
   The breezy fingers of the wind,
     How cool and moist they were.

   The twilight hours came stealing by,
     And still I wandered free;
   Ten thousand stars were in the sky,
     Ten thousand on the sea.

   For ev’ry wave with dimpled face,
     That leaped upon the air,
   Had caught a star in its embrace,
     And held it trembling there.

   But wherefore weave such strains as these,
     And sing them day by day,
   When every bird upon the breeze
     Can sing a sweeter lay.

   I’d give the world for their sweet art. 
     The simple, the divine;
   I’d give the world to melt one heart,
     As they have melted mine.

TO AMELIA.

   And wouldst thou, sweet minstrel, if earth should unfold
   To thee all her treasures of silver and gold,
   Resign all thy riches, thy wealth, fame and power,
   To sing like the birds in the green woodland bower?

   Like thee, dear Amelia, I love the wild bird,
   Their soft melting strains, at grey twilight, I’ve heard;
   The whippowils, then, on the cool zephyr’s wing,
   Their clear pensive notes in rich harmony fling.

   I listen each morning with heartfelt delight,
   While birds bid adieu to the shadows of night. 
   And greet in sweet anthems the bright king of day,
   As they through the forest are soaring away.

   Yet thy flowing numbers, when breathing around,
   Awaken such echoes as these never found;
   A chord in my bosom, thy sonnet has stirred,
   Which never was touched by the notes of a bird.

   But meekness in woman to me is so dear,
   I love thee the more when such language I hear;
   True greatness and modesty, when they combine,
   Like stars of the firmament sparkle and shine.