The Lambertville press. [volume] (Lambertville, N.J.) 1858-1???, 1859-01-20
[FoR THE PRESS.
Whose is the Landscape?
BY T. c. S.

i. ". 9.
That rich prairie swelling onward from the
Illinois to the great lakes-that beautiful ANA
zon lying asleep in the sum- her grass green
banks fringed with the white and the red of the
century plant, and her hazel wreath intertwined |
with the purple and gold Of the rudbecia.-
Whose is all this 1t belongs to Government,
you say. And who is Government A being
with an eye for. beauty, an ear for melody, and
soul to feast upon the banquet that nature
has outspread No, indeed Government is
generality, an abstraction. But it claims these
blooming acres, because a Surveyor has been
over them with his chain, and his clerk has cop
led their length and breadth into some great
numbering book, to be doled oat in sections ana
quarter sections to the restless Yankee, the hum
cry Hibernian and the phlegmatic emigrant
from "Vatterland' Yes, Government holds
the landscape by pen and ink title, easily
transferred; bat German, Irishman, and Yam
kee, may each fail Of buying its richness. The
sunlight folds it in mantle Of shmmering haze
they may never learn how to unwrap-midnigh
| anu The STARS cTcje IL Will d gorgeous Cndlh,
the secret of whose clasp, strong or cunning
hands may not discover.
| No Government holds natures mysterious
keys,-they cannot be bartered for dollars
That broad extent of natural mosaic, curiously
wrought of dark green forests, hill-sides yellow
with summer bloom, whitened harvest fields,
rose girdled meadows and the blue Of sea, lake,
and sky. 'Who says of that it is mine Z"
This height which commands the whole variety
and blending of beauty in one white view, and
yonder mansion, with its porches, cupolas, and
avenues, perhaps, is the property OF some large
landholder But in all his possessions, how lit
tie of the prospect he really owns. Enough Ct
the spring flowers to compare their tint with
the exquisite shading of his brussels and tapes
try carpets Enough of the linden and NAL
berry shade, to shield his complexion from tan
and freckles-and enough Of the distances to
dread the approaching rain clouds that forbids
his ride to town. Little more than this his i'm
aginatiye mind can see. So the landscape is
not his That rural work, in the cleft of the
hills, where farm house stands amongst fra
grant hay fields, bordered with grey stone walls,
over which the blackberry bush hangs in grace
full festoons, and the half open sweet briar buds
peep sideways into the suns eye. To whom
does it belong To an honest farmer. The
house is his for nightly shelter-the rocks are
his to rest on at noon-the meadow lands are
his to pillow and sow-the golden harvest fields
are his to fill his barn and feed his children.
Sometimes, amid the heat and WEAKNESS OF Ia
Dor, fash of true worship may light up his
small farm with beauty of Paradise. In such
moment he is richer than king,-but fields
for toll and a home for rest are what he COM
monty sees and calls his own. Therefore the
landscape is not his. A plain man, without
companion or gay equippage, walks through the
quiet lanes, dewdrops are sparkling on the grass
blades and he arrests his footsteps, for fear Of
shaking them off, and thereby destroying their
beauty. The wild rose beekons to him from
4 the creyice in the stone fnce-he catches the
glimpse of the chimney smoke among the hay
fields, and listens to the shout of the mowers,
and sweet human sympathies, blending with all
that is beautiful in the scene pour into his heart
stream sparkling with golden sands" he
climbs the hills, gathering pearls from pebbles,
and rubies from weeds, as he goes" He stands
upon the ridge, and when bis eye takes hold OF
the long line of wood and river, the warmth OF
sunbeam glides and thrills through his being,
he Sees With an appropriate glance, the for
ests with their sunny openings, and beyond the
prairie, mountain, and valley, visloned IN the
long perspective of his imagination, and they
are his-the Poet,-for nature has loved him.
His the humble, trusting, adoring Poets, upon
whom God has bestowed the beauty and glory
| Of his creation for kingdom, because he has
bowed downed and worshipped him, and the
Poet takes gracefully the loneliness Of the land
scape to his heart, for God has made it for him.
and for him alone.