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Ever drifting, drifting, drifting,
YE voices, that arose
Go, breathe it in the ear
Ye sounds, so low and calm,
Go, mingle yet once more
Tongues of the dead, not lost,
Glimmer, as funeral lamps,
[These poems were written, for the most part, during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names, and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion: “I cannot be dis. pleased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and
safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together, in a more decorous garb.”]
AN APRIL DAY
WHEN the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain. *
I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming on of storms.
From the earth's loosened mould , . The sapling draws it sustenance, and thrives; Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,
The drooping tree revives.
The softly warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and coloured wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along The forest openings.
When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,
And wide the upland glows.
And, when the eve is born,
And twinkles many a star.
Inverted in the tide, Stand the gray rocks, and tremblingshadows throw, And the fair trees look over, side by side,
And see themselves below.
Sweet April 1—many a thought
Life's golden fruit is shed.
WITH what a glory comes and goes the year;
There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
O what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, Shall have avoice, and give him eloquent teachings, He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear.
WOODS IN WINTER.
WHEN winter winds are piercing chill,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
O'er the bare upland, and away
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
Where, twisted round the barren oak,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
But still wild music is abroad,
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear
I hear it in the opening year,
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM,
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI's BANNER.
When the dying flame of day