By William Cutter

It was a perfect Eden for beauty. The scent of flowers came up on the gale, the swift stream sparkled like a flow of diamonds in the sun, and a smile of soft light glistened on every leaf and blade, as they drank in the life-giving ray. Its significant loveliness was eloquent to the eye and the heart—but a strange deep silence reigned over it all. So perfect was the unearthly stillness, you could almost hear yourself think.—Katahdin.

Has thy foot ever trod that silent dell?
'Tis a place for the voiceless thought to swell
And the eloquent song to go up unspoken,
Like the incense of flowers whose urns are broken;
And the unveiled heart may look in, and see,
In that deep strange silence, its motions free,
And learn how the pure in spirit feel
That unseen Presence to which they kneel.
No sound goes up from the quivering trees,
When they spread their arms to the welcome breeze;
They wave in the Zephyr—they bow to the blast—
But they breathe not a word of the power that passed;
And their leaves come down on the turf and the stream,
With as noiseless a fall as the step of a dream;
And the breath that is bending the grass and the flowers,
Moves o'er them as lightly as evening hours.
The merry bird lights down on that dell,
And, hushing his breath, lest the song should swell,
Sits with folded wing in the balmy shade,
Like a musical thought in the soul unsaid.
And they of strong pinion and loftier flight,
Pass over that valley, like clouds in the night—
They move not a wing in that solemn sky,
But sail in a reverent silence by.
The deer, in his flight, has passed that way,
And felt the deep spell's mysterious sway—
He hears not the rush of the path he cleaves,
Nor his bounding step on the trampled leaves.
The hare goes up on that sunny hill,
And the footsteps of morning are not more still,
And the wild, and the fierce, and the mighty are there,
Unheard in the hush of that slumbering air.
The stream rolls down in that valley serene,
Content in its beautiful flow to be seen,
And its fresh flowery banks, and its pebbly bed
Were never yet told of its fountain head;
And it still rushes on—but they ask not why,
With its smile of light, it is hurrying by;
Still, gliding, or leaping, unwhispered, unsung,
Like the flow of bright fancies, it flashes along.
The wind sweeps by, and the leaves are stirred,
But never a whisper or sigh is heard;
And when its strong rush laid low the oak,
Not a murmur the eloquent stillness broke.
And the gay young echoes—those mockers that lie
In the dark mountain-sides—make no reply,
But, hushed in their caves, they are listening still
For the songs of that valley to burst o'er the hill.
I love society;—I am o'erblest to hear
The mingling voices of a world; mine ear
Drinks in their music with a spiritual taste;
I love companionship on life's dark waste,
And could not live unheard;—yet that still vale—
It had no fearful mystery in its tale;—
Its hush was grand, not awful, as if there
The voice of nature were a breathing prayer.
'Twas like a holy temple, where the pure
Might blend in their heart-worship, and be sure
No sound of earth could come—a soul kept still,
In faith's unanswering meekness, for heaven's will,
Its eloquent thoughts sent upward and abroad,
But all its deep hushed voices kept for God!