Lewisburg chronicle. [volume] (Lewisburg, Pa.) 1850-1859, 1855-11-16
ORIGINAL L = = \ y $
Dream of all Things Free.

bowers. Fancy's brightest ray steals softly
in upon the mind, illuminating and embel-
fishing the respondent images discovered
in the temple of Imagination, which now
opens wide its portals for us to enter and
revel in its fairy-land, The magic charms
of sylvan gro,tos and pcarly streams are
irresistible, and soon within its dreamy
halls the commonalties of life are forgotten,
thought scars to lofty heights, higher, and
still higher, and we dream of all things
glad and free. Yes, freedom is the soul
inspiring lay, it wakes our thoughts and
fires with enthusiasm It's of this we love
TO dream. Freely the mind wauders over
this broad earth we range the wide ex-
panse, rambling for season in our own
bright land, through scenes of rural beauty
and magnifcence, and then across the
mountain-wave to foreign climes, while
every spot echoes the glad song of native
freedom. The thrilling strains murmur
forth from the many flashing rills and
oceans silver spray. The many-toned wind
is wanderer free, spirit which floats
lightly Ger the liquid waters and fans the
parched and burning land. Dancingly
upon the crested surge goes the fleet bark,
majestic in its liberty, Its home is the
great blue deep, and on it glides spreading
its snowy wings to the gentle breeze which
bears it through the chainless wild. And
here our spirits linger to gaze upon the
swan-like motion of the billow queen, till
carried on dreamy pinions to other scenes.
ilark hear you those sweet, sad strains
Of frec-born music? As we approach the
wild and mournful solitude, the tuncful
melody fallsin rich harmony upon the lis
tening ear. High born emotions swell
within the breast as Nature here lies be-
fore us, untouched by human art, ne'er
echoing to the voice of mortal man. Upon
the bosom of this silver lake, no sails
have ever spread, nor feathered oar Ger
piled; solemn glory broods over it.
Along its mossy banks, giant pines rear
their tall forms, and the willow bends low
to lave its leaves in the cooling waters
Around it, dark woods shiver, and dashing,
foaming falls, keep music with the mourn
full signing of the wind as it whispers
softly in the leafy trees. We dream Of
free and happy spirits lowering ever nigh
this quiet and sequestered region; It's too
charming; We fain would linger where such
seraphic minstrelsy swells with each brce-
zy sigh but we can not, already the be-
wildering scene yauishcs from the enrap-
tured sight.
Sublimity and grandeur fill the soul with
awe as the naughty mountain throws its
palling shadows on our path. Its sturdy
trees seem welcoming our approach, as
they bow their heads low and wave grace
fully upon its lofty height. Above its
cragged summit is heard the rustlirg wings
of the bright-eycd mountan,bird, undis
putcd monarch Of the realm here, too, the
wild falcons build their lordly nest The
light footstep of the fearless hunter falls
not upon its heathery sides, but the slow,
majestic tread of the lion has formed a
path which it may traverse freed from all
human weapons. Here, fleet bounds the
chamois and the gleeful stag, where shakes
the mountain fir. The lions Heightened
roar Mingled with the shrill cry of the
wild bird, make nightly serenades with the
murmuring cadence of the mountain
stream. As this towering hill recedes from
our view, still the mighty chant Of free
dom's song is family borne across the wa
tiers on the midnight air, till, at length, it
dies away, and in Imagination we are trans
ferred to our own native forests. Within
its labyrinthian shades, roams the dark
eyed Indian maid. Happy heart! Guile
less and free she springs from crag to crag,
and nimbly rows her light skitf on the
dark blue lake, and to the music Of her
glad heart warbling sweet, wild ditties.
Here, too, through these pathless mazes,
the chieftain leads his fearless, noble-heart-
ed warriors; together they have stemmed
the torrents force, and with well filled
quiver joined the gleesOme chase.
But the mystic spell is broken, the
phantom of Imagination vanished, and we
awake to ask ourselves, " Is there nothing
to mar the illusion thus happily thrown
around US p All the unwelcOme truth.
The heart of the dreamer is itself bleed
ing in chains. Why, o why should man,
the nobest of Gods creatures, thus bend
under the weigh. of bondage? What, we
earnestly enquire, is this captivity! Come
with US at the peusiye hour Of twilight,
while the orb Of day is departing behind
yon blue hills, and the soft moonbeams
trcmble on the waters. Before US is
lonely glen, where may be seen the faint,
Pickering light, ever aud anon issuing
from that dismal building. The prisoner
lies in his gloomy cell, an exile from his
loved, his distant home he forgets the