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The wood-nymphs hail my airs and temper'd shade, With ditties soft and lightly sportive dance, On river margin of some bow'ry glade, And strew their fresh buds as my steps advance: But, swift I pass, and distant regions trace, For moon-beams silver all the eastern cloud, And Day's last crimson vestige fades apace; Down the steep west I fly from Midnight's shroud.
I been a-totin' dis kindlin' from way up yander in Twenty-third Street where the circus useter be. Dey's buildin' a big hotel dere now de Fifth Avenue dey calls it. I'm a-carryin' mortar for de brick-layers an' somehow dese sticks is monst'ous heavy after workin' all day." "Where do you live?" asked Oliver, his eyes on the kindling-wood. "Not far from here, sah; little way dis side de Bow'ry.
Pope, in his Windsor Forest. Ye sacred nine, that all my soul possess, Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless; Bear me, O bear me, to sequester'd scenes, The bow'ry mazes, and surrounding greens; To Thames's bank which fragrant breezes fill, Or where the muses sport on Cooper's-hill.
Still through the deep'ning gloom of bow'ry shades To Fancy's eye fantastic forms appear; Low whisp'ring echoes steal along the glades And thrill the ear with wildly-pleasing fear. Parent of shades! of silence! dewy airs! Of solemn musing, and of vision wild! To thee my soul her pensive tribute bears, And hails thy gradual step, thy influence mild.
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