“What woodland depths of soft blue filmy gloom!
Up to your easel, truant! And we'll go
Down by the Wells of Weary, and we'll watch
Gloaming come on: How sweet the dewy dark,
The lapse of waters gurgling by unseen,
The sighing night-wind, and soft-swaying trees!
In the soft-swaying trees sleep the peace-folded doves.
Up, idle Hal! You smile, but shake the head?
Lie, then, and list!” From fever's fiery gulf
Redeemed he lay, pale, with a gentle smile.
And wise to touch his sympathetic heart
With lively promptings of the pictured year,
Pastime, and Art he loved so, to her lute
The damsel sung: thus sung the sister-twin:—

Sport on the ice his ringing revel keeps:
Curve he sweeps,
Curve he sweeps,
Harry, how his curve he sweeps!
The tumult booms
Through Echo's rooms,
Confused among the craggy steeps.

Breezes blowing,
Cloudland going,
Airy cloudland opening, going—
Line how fine is Harry throwing,
Throwing on the waters flowing!

Bloom of the May, smell of the May,
How sweet from thee, our dear old Thorn!
To the bold Thrush, on thy top spray,
Tremble the drops of morn.
The sister lilies naked in their dew,
Out with a flash the brook
From her sleeping pool in the bashful nook,
Yon hanging woods, yon crystal blue,
How fresh of the young day!
Vassal to Beauty, Thrush, with you,
Hal and I we pipe the May.

Painter to Most Gracious Me,
Hit it off so bold and free:—
Love has crosses.
How she tosses
All her tangled locks about,
All her taking graces out!
Kate, with her airs of grand disdain,
Makes hay at her neglecting swain.

Bay of the lake, our little cup,
The flowery sward has rimmed it sweet.
Over it dips the Doe her feet,
That drinking Doe: a shadowy Doe
Is floating in the greening flow,
Lipping up, lipping up.
Limner, oh for the double Doe!

Dash with fire the flakes of Morn.
Drowse sultry dim the palpitating Noon.
What lucid beauty tips her virgin horn;
Touch sweet of hope yon crescent Moon!

But what of the chisel? Up, more than snare
With the sweet blue pleasure of eyes divine:
Be the marbles of symmetry thine,
Set in elysian air.

Tallyho! To the cry our crags on high,
Thickets and crags, reply, reply.
Down what a burst of hound and horn!
Engulfed it sinks: List! down the glen unshorn,
The muffled echoes down, far flying, dying, die.

Here be favours of the sun:
Here the apple, red and yellow;
Purple plum, with film of hoar;
Pear, delicious cold of pore;
Here the grape, divinely mellow.
Taste we now: The Song is done.

Soothed by the Song, he slept. Long was the sleep,
And deep of dewy healing. When he woke,
His eye new-glistened from the fount of life.
And from her own true heart, so thankful glad,
The Young Physician had her fitting fee.