Music.

The wind-harp has music it moans to the tree,
And so has the shell that complains to the sea,
The lark that sings merrily over the lea,
        The reed of the rude shepherd boy!
We revel in music when day has begun,
When rock-fountains gush into glee as they run,
And stars of the morn sing their hymns to the sun,
        Who brightens the hill-tops with joy!

The spirit of melody floats in the air,
Her instruments tuning to harmony there,
Our senses beguiling from sorrow and care,
        In blessings sent down from above!
But Nature has music far more to my choice--
And all in her exquisite changes rejoice!
No tones thrill my heart like the dear human voice
        When breathed by the being I love!

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

The Songs of Home.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Near the Lake.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Croton Ode.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Evergreen.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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Nature's Music.

Of many gifts bestowed on earth
    To cheer a lonely hour,
Oh is there one of equal worth
    With music's magic power?
'Twill charm each angry thought to rest,
    'Twill gloomy care dispel,
And ever we its power can test, -
    All nature breathes its spell.

There's music in the sighing tone
    Of the soft, southern breeze
That whispers thro' the flowers lone,
    And bends the stately trees,
And - in the mighty ocean's chime,
    The crested breakers roar,
The wild waves, ceaseless surge sublime,
    Breaking upon the shore.

There's music in the bulbul's note,
    Warbling its vesper lay
In some fair spot, from man remote,
    Where wind and flowers play;
But, oh! beyond the sweetest strain
    Of bird, or wave, or gro...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Poetry.

To me the world's an open book
Of sweet and pleasant poetry;
I read it in the running brook
That sings its way toward the sea.
It whispers in the leaves of trees,
The swelling grain, the waving grass,
And in the cool, fresh evening breeze
That crisps the wavelets as they pass.

The flowers below, the stars above,
In all their bloom and brightness given,
Are, like the attributes of love,
The poetry of earth and heaven.
Thus Nature's volume, read aright,
Attunes the soul to minstrelsy,
Tinging life's clouds with rosy light,
And all the world with poetry.

George Pope Morris

Nature Has A Thousand Choirs.

    Nature has a thousand choirs
        Singing in the sylvan shadows,
    And the music of her lyres
        Echoes in the merry meadows;
    Always glad with golden glee
    Sounds her happy melody,
    Swelling wild in fairy measure
    With the songs of purest pleasure.

    Where the dancing fountains play
        Winding warbles shake and shiver,
    And soft carols rise alway
        From the ripples of the river;
    Sweetest voices fondly call
    From the fleecy waterfall,
    And the joyful chimes are creeping
    Where the lovely lake is sleeping.

    Raptures echo in the wood,
        Where the pimpernel reposes;
    Gladness fills the solitude
        Where the blushes kiss the roses;
    Sunny beam and somber gloo...

Freeman Edwin Miller

I Love the Night.

I love the night when the moon streams bright
    On flowers that drink the dew--
When cascades shout as the stars peep out,
    From boundless fields of blue;
But dearer far than moon or star,
    Or flowers of gaudy hue,
Or murmuring trills of mountain-rills,
    I love, I love, love--you!

I love to stray at the close of the day,
    Through groves of forest-trees,
When gushing notes from song-birds' throats
    Are vocal in the breeze.
I love the night--the glorious night--
    When hearts beat warm and true;
But far above the night, I love,
    I love, I love, love--you!

George Pope Morris

The Star of Love.

The star of love now shines above,
    Cool zephyrs crisp the sea;
Among the leaves the wind-harp weaves
    Its serenade for thee.
The star, the breeze, the wave, the trees,
    Their minstrelsy unite,
But all are drear till thou appear
    To decorate the night.

The light of noon streams from the moon,
    Though with a milder ray
O'er hill and grove, like woman's love,
    It cheers us on our way.
Thus all that's bright--the moon, the night,
    The heavens, the earth, the sea,
Exert their powers to bless the hours
    We dedicate to thee.

George Pope Morris

Oh, Would that She were Here!

Oh, would that she were here,
These hills and dales among,
Where vocal groves are gayly mocked
By Echo's airy tongue:
Where jocund nature smiles
In all her boon attire,
And roams the deeply-tangled wilds
Of hawthorn and sweet-brier.
Oh, would that she were here--
The gentle maid I sing,
Whose voice is cheerful as the songs
Of forest-birds in spring!

Oh, would that she were here,
Where the free waters leap,
Shouting in sportive joyousness
Adown the rocky steep:
Where zephyrs crisp and cool
The fountains as they play,
With health upon their wings of light,
And gladness on their way.
Oh, would that she were here,
With these balm-breathing trees,
The sylvan daughters of the sun,
The rain-cloud, and the breeze!

Oh...

George Pope Morris