O GIFTED Hunter, would thy skill were mine!

How could'st thou snare the summer's passing voice?

How could'st thou choose the choicest from the choice

Of dulcet summer melodies, combine

And mould them into this--a thing sublime,

Rich in the luxury of loveliness?

What hallowed musing did thy heart impress?

Surely the thought was God's, thy brush divine.

Oh! I could feel those gentle Zephyrs blow

And see thy river mirroring the sun;

And I could scent the honeyed flowers that grow

Empurpling that meadow every one;

And somewhere yonder in the fading sky

I gain the secret of Eternity!