A SOUTHERN SINGER.

Herein are blown from out the South

Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth —

As sweet in voice as, in perfume,

The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.

Such sumptuous languor lures the sense —

Such luxury of indolence —

The eyes blur as a nymph's might blur,

With water-lilies watching her.

You waken, thrilling at the trill

Of some wild bird that seems to spill

The silence full of winey drips

Of song that Fancy sips and sips.

Betimes, in brambled lanes wherethrough

The chipmunk stripes himself from view,

You pause to lop a creamy spray

Of elder-blossoms by the way.

Or where the morning dew is yet

Gray on the topmost rail, you set

A sudden palm and, vaulting, meet

Your vaulting shadow in the wheat.

On lordly swards, of suave incline,

Entessellate with shade and shine,

You shall misdoubt your lowly birth,

Clad on as one of princely worth:

The falcon on your wrist shall ride —

Your milk-white Arab side by side

With one of raven-black.— You fain

Would kiss the hand that holds the rein.

Nay, nay, Romancer! Poet! Seer!

Sing us back home — from there to here;

Grant your high grace and wit, but we

Most honor your simplicity.—

Herein are blown from out the South

Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth —

As sweet in voice as, in perfume,

The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.