Ever drifting, drifting, drifting, Currents of the restless heart; L' ENVOI. YE voices, that arose After the Evening's close, And whispered to my restless heart repose! Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, "Be of good cheer!" Ye sounds, so low and calm, That in the groves of balm Seemed to me like an angel's psalm! Go, mingle yet once more With the perpetual roar Of the pine forest, dark and hoar! Tongues of the dead, not lost, Glimmer, as funeral lamps, Of the vast plain where death encamps! EARLIER POEMS. [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, 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 And, when the eve is born, In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, Inverted in the tide, Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, Sweet April!-many a thought AUTUMN. WITH what a glory comes and goes the year; There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Within the solemn woods of ash deep crimsoned, 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 a voice, 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, That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, Where, twisted round the barren oak, Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 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 HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. When the dying flame of day |