Legends and Lilies; A Souvenir

This historic book may have numerous typos, missing text or index. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. 1893. Not illustrated. Excerpt: ... 'Mid the wild flowers of the mountain he has slumbered all night long; In the covert of the roses the nightingale sang his song; The babbling brook ran by, and the dryads softly speak, But he knew not when the muses kissed him on brow and cheek. The spell of song is on him. Go whithersoever he will The sweet dew of Parnassus will cling to his garments still, And the poet's manifold roses around his heart will twine. Bred from a drop of dew and brought from the mountains divine. Sweet is the legend sung by the wonderful bard of old, But the pilgrim to Calvary's mount has a sweeter story told; And the melody of his song, wherever his footstep goes, Gives to the wilderness lone the breath and the bloom of the rose. The poet may tell his dream, but the vision is for the saint, And the beauty of the real, the ideal cannot paint; So a tenderer bar in the music to the Christ-taught must belong, Than was his who was kissed by the muses and slept on the Mountain of Song. THE ALCHEMIST. Last night the wood was set on fire, This morn the smoke goes up in haze, The sumac boughs are all ablaze, The maple is a livid spire. tHE ALCHEMIST. t$ The moaning winds lulled to a breath, And flaming brands afar were tossed, The cool incendiarism of the frost That lights the forest aisles in death. The woodbine was the frost-king's goal, And when at last the morning came, Its vines were helices of flame, And every leaf a burning coal, Where, ere he laid his flambeau down, His bonny bonfires gleam and glow In thorn-trees hung with scarlet sloe, Like rubies in a monarch's crown. A weird wand stretches o'er the way. And old Vesuvius has exhumed His buried flames, but unconsumed The bush burns on from day to day. Aye, watch by Autumn's funeral pyre Till gray December days are here, And ever...