The Horns.

THE HORNS.

BUT who are these, far in the leafy wood,
Murmuring such mellow, hesitating notes,
It seems the very breath of solitude,
Loading with dewy balm each breeze that floats?
They are a peasant group, I know them well,
The diffident, conscious Horns, whose muffled speech
But half expresses what their souls would tell,
Aiming at strains their skill can never reach;
An untaught rustic band; and yet how sweet
And soothing comes their music o’er the soul.
Dear Poets of the forest, who would meet
Your melodies save where wild waters roll?
Reminding us of Him who by his plough
Walked with a laurel-wreath upon his brow!