Hills of Song

te bloom, Flings its subtle perfume On the breeze To the bees. How they hover around, Tiny bandits and bold, Making thefts honey-sweet With a murmurous sound ! And the psyches they meet, Little atoms of gold, Join the frolic, and hold Jubilee Round the tree. Where is Mab ? where is Puck ? Is that Ariel sings From the crest of yon bough . . That no mortal should pluck ? O but list to it now ! ? Revellings, rapturings ; ? Then a glimmer of wings And away Like a ray. How the bloom and the balm And the bee and the bird, In the depth of the wood, To the heart bring a calm, To the spirit seem good, More than music or word ! Every fibre is stirred By the hum, ? And the plum ! A BELL HAD I the power To cast a bell that should from some grand tower, At the first Christmas hour, Outring, And fling A jubilant message wide, The forged metals should be thus allied ; ? No iron Pride, A BELL But soft Humility, and rich-veined Hope Cleft from a sunny slope ; And there should be White Charity, And silvery Love, that knows not Doubt nor Fear, To make the peal more clear ; And then to firmly fix the fine alloy, There should be Joy ! IN ITALIA THE SHEPHERD OF THE LIRO A DOWN the Alpine vale our way we wended Toward fair Italia, wrapt in rosy haze ; And ever, when we thought the path had ended, New vistas opened to our wondering gaze. Dark rocks lay strewn by ancient avalanche...