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And silver white the river gleams,
Had dropped her silver bow
On such a tranquil night as this,
When, sleeping in the grove,
Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassioned gaze.
In silence and alone,
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him, who slumbering lies. O, weary hearts ! O, slumbering eyes ! 0, drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
No one is so accursed by fate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.
And whispers, in its song,
IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.
No hay Pajaros en los nidos de Antano.
The sun is bright, the air is clear,
The darting swallows soar and sing, And from the stately elms I hear
The blue-bird prophesying Spring. So blue yon winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky, Where, waiting till the west wind blows,
The freighted clouds at anchor lie.
All things are new ;—the buds, the leaves,
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves ;
There are no birds in last year's nest!
All things rejoice in youth and love,
The fulness of their first delight ! And learn from the soft heavens above The
ting tenderness of nig!
Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ;
For O! it is not always díay!
To some good angel leave the rest ;
There are no birds in last year's nest.
THE RAINY DAY.
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
And the day is dark and dreary.
And the days are dark and dreary.
Some days must be dark and dreary.
I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial ground God's Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
have sown The seed that they have garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life ; alas, no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith that we shall rise again,
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.
With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God,
This is the place where human harvests grow!
TO THE RIVER CIIARLES.
RIVER! that in silence windest
Through the meadows, bright and free, Till at length thy rest thou findest
In the bosom of the sea !
Four long years of mingled feeling,
Half in rest and half in strife,
Thou hast taught me, Silent River!
Many a lesson, deep and long;
I can give thee but a song.
I have watched thy current glide,
Overflowed me, like a tide.
When I saw thy waters gleam,
And leap onward with thy stream.
Not for this alone I love thee,
Nor because thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee
Take their own celestial hue.
Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,
And thy waters disappear,
And have made thy margin dear. More than this ;-thy name reminds me
Of three friends, all true and tried ;
Closer, closer to thy side.
How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers
On the hearth-stone of my heart! 'Tis for this, thou silent river!
That my spirit leans to thee; Thou hast been a generous giver,
Take this idle song from me.
THE GOBLET OF LIFE.
FILLED is Life's goblet to the brim;
With solemn voice and slow.
No purple flowers, no garlands green, Conceal the gobiet's shade or sheen, Nor maddening draughts of Hypocrene, Like gleams of sunshine, flash between
Thick leaves of misletoe.