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POEMS BY ACTON BELLTHE ARBOUR.
I`ll rest me in this sheltered bower,
And look upon the clear blue sky
That smiles upon me through the trees,
Which stand so thick clustering by;
And view their green and glossy leaves,
All glistening in the sunshine fair;
And list the rustling of their boughs,
So softly whispering through the air.
And while my ear drinks in the sound,
My winged soul shall fly away;
Reviewing lone departed years
As one mild, beaming, autumn day;
And soaring on to future scenes,
Like hills and woods, and valleys green,
All basking in the summer`s sun,
But distant still, and dimly seen.
Oh, list! `tis summer`s very breath
That gently shakes the rustling trees--
But look! the snow is on the ground--
How can I think of scenes like these?
`Tis but the FROST that clears the air,
And gives the sky that lovely blue;
They`re smiling in a WINTER`S sun,
Those evergreens of sombre hue.
And winter`s chill is on my heart--
How can I dream of future bliss?
How can my spirit soar away,
Confined by such a chain as this?
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