Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Nature

Nature.

I love to sit upon some steep
That overhangs the billowy deep,
And hear the waters roar;
I love to see the big waves fly,
And swell their bosoms to the sky,
Then burst upon the shore.

I love, when seated on its brow,
To look o'er all the world below,
And eye the distant vale;
From thence to see the waving corn,
With yellow hue the hills adorn,
And bend before the gale.

I love far downward to behold
The shepherd with his bleating fold,
And hear the tinkling sound
Of little bell and mellow flute,
Wafted on zephyrs, soft, now mute,
Then swell in echoes round.

I love to range the valleys too,
And towering hills from thence to view,
Which rear their heads so high;
When nought beside, around, is seen
But one extended space between,
And overhead the sky.

I love to see, at close of day,
Spread o'er the hills the sun's broad ray,
While rolling down the west;
When every cloud in rich attire
And half the sky, that seems on fire,
For purple robes is drest.

I love when evening veils the sky,
And the moon shines with silver ray,
To cast a glance around,
And see ten thousand worlds of light
Shine, ever new, and ever bright,
O'er the vast vault profound.

I love to let wild fancy stray,
And walk the spangled milky way,
Up to the shining height,
Where thousand thousand burning rays,
Mingle in one eternal blaze,
And charm the ravished sight.

I love from thence to take my flight,
Far downward on the beams of light,
And reach my native plain,
Just as the flaming orb of day
Drives night, and mists, and shades away,
And cheers the world again.