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Ever drifting, drifting, drifting,
On the shifting
They, like hoarded
YE voices, that arose
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 Ayranches, 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
The first flower of the plain.
I love the season well,
The coming on of storms.
From the earth's loosened mould
The drooping tree revives.
The softly warbled song,
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 trembling shadows 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
WOODS IN WINTER.
WAEN winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.
Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.
Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.
Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day. But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song ; I hear it in the opening year,
I listen, and it cheers me long.
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF
When the dying flame of day