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Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine ?
Elfin court 'twould seem;
And taught perchance that dream
Human speech avails not ;
Think of all these treasures,
Matchless works and pleasures, Every one a marvel, more than thought can say;
Then think in what bright showers
We thicken fields and bowers,
wanton May :
By the bee-birds haunted,
Trees themselves are ours;
Fruits are born of flowers; Peach and roughestnut were blossoms in the spring;
The lusty bee knows well
The news, and comes pell-mell,
Of planet-pressing ocean
for meek devotion.
Tears of Phoebus,-missings
Have in us been found, and wise men find them
Still Hyacinthus' curls,
Thy red lip, Adonis,
Still is wet with morning ;
Who shall say that flowers
Dress not heav'n's own bowers ?
To say we sprang not there,
piece of heav'n the more ? Oh pray believe that angels
From those blue dominions Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their golden pinions.
OVE, strong as death, is dead.
Come, let us make his bed
Among the dying flowers;
turf at his head,
In the quiet evening hours.
He was born in the spring,
On the last warm summer day
“ He is gone away."
To few chords, and sad, and low,
Sing we so.
TO A WATER-FOWL.
HITHER, 'midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps
Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way!
Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
On the chafed ocean side ?
There is a Power whose care
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fann'd,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy shelter'd nest.
Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form ; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He, who from zone to zone Guides through the boundless sky thy certain
flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.
W. C. BRYANT.
VENUS OF THE NEEDLE.
MARYANNE, you pretty girl,
Intent on silky labour,
Excuse a peeping neighbour !
Those eyes for ever drooping, give
The long brown lashes rarely ; But violets in the shadows live,
For once unveil them fairly.
Hast thou not lent that flounce enough
Of looks so long and earnest ?
To which thou never turnest.
Ye graceful fingers, deftly sped!
How slender, and how nimble !
Or but pick up their thimble !
How blest the youth whom love shall bring,
And happy stars embolden,
The silver into golden !
To take her finger's measure,
And blushes deep with pleasure.
Who'll watch her sew her wedding-gown,
Well conscious that it is hers; Who'll glean a tress, without a frown,
With those so ready scissors.
Who'll taste those ripenings of the south,
The fragrant and delicious— Don't put the pins into your mouth,
O Maryanne, my precious!
I almost wish it were my trust
To teach how shocking that is ;