HOFFMANN. SPARKLING AND BRIGHT. SPARKLING and bright in liquid light, Which a bee would choose to dream in. As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, Oh! if Mirth might arrest the flight Of Time through Life's dominions, We here awhile would now beguile The grey-beard of his pinions To drink to-night with hearts as light, As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, But since delight can't tempt the wight, Nor Love himself can hold the elf, Nor sober Friendship stay him, We'll drink to-night with hearts as light, As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, MORRIS. WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. WOODMAN, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! That placed it near his cot; That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea, And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; Oh, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. POETRY. Old tree! the storm still brave! And woodman, leave the spot ; Thy axe shall harm it not. POETRY. To me the world's an open book, That sings its way towards the sea. The swelling grain, the waving grass, And in the cool, fresh evening breeze That crisps the wavelets as they pass. The flowers below, the stars above, In all their bloom and brightness given, Are, like the attributes of love, The poetry of earth and heaven. Thus Nature's volume, read aright, Attunes the soul to minstrelsy, Tinging life's clouds with rosy light, And all the world with poetry. SNOW-A WINTER SKETCH. 'Tis winter, yet there is no sound Along the air, Of winds upon their battle-ground, But gently there, The snow is falling,-all around How fair-how fair! The jocund fields would masquerade; Tree, shrub, and lawn, and lonely glade And joined the revel, all arrayed So white and clean. E'en the old posts, that hold the bars And the old gate, Forgetful of their wintry wars, And age sedate, High capped, and plumed, like white hussars, Stand there in state. The drifts are hanging by the sill, The eaves, the door; The hay-stack has become a hill; All covered o'er The waggon, loaded for the mill The eve before. Maria brings the water-pail, But where's the well! Like magic of a fairy tale, Most strange to tell, All vanished, curb, and crank, and rail! How deep it fell! |