SOOTHING.

I aimless wandered thro’ the woods, and flung

My idle limbs upon a soft brown bank,

Where, thickly strewn, the worn-out russet leaves

Rustled a faint remonstrance at my tread.

The yellow fungi, shewing pallid stems,

The mossy lichen creeping o'er the stones

And making green the whitened hemlock-bark,

The dull wax of the woodland lily-bud,

On these my eye could rest, and I was still.

No sound was there save a low murmured cheep

From an ambitious nestling, and the slow

And oft-recurring plash of myriad waves

That spent their strength against the unheeding shore.

Over and through a spreading undergrowth

I saw the gleaming of the tranquil sea.

The woody scent of mosses and sweet ferns,

Mingled with the fresh brine, and came to me,

Bringing a laudanum to my ceaseless pain;

A quietness stole in upon me then,

And o'er my soul there passed a wave of peace.