Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again! Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy No one is so accursed by fate, And silver white the river gleams, No hay pájaros en los nidos de antaño. As if Diana, in her dreams Had dropt her silver bow Spanish Proverb. THE sun is bright, - the air is clear, The darting swallows soar and sing, And from the stately elms I hear The bluebird prophesying Spring. So blue yon winding river flows, It seems an outlet from the sky, Where, waiting till the west wind blows, The freighted clouds at anchor lie. All things are new ;- -the buds, the leaves, That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves; There are no birds in last year's nest! All things rejoice in youth and love, The fulness of their first deligh And learn from the soft heaven above The melting tenderness of night. For Time will teach thee soon the God's-Acre ! truth, There are no birds in last year's nest! THE RAINY DAY THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith, that we shall rise again The vine still clings to the moulder- At the great harvest, when the And he replies, 'Oh, give me light! Where yon shadowy woodlands Rabbi, restore the blind man's hide thee, And thy waters disappear, sight.' And Jesus answers, "Tαуe' Friends I love have dwelt beside | ‘Η πίστις σου σέσωκέ σε I see its sparkling bubbles swim, With solemn voice and slow. And he who has not learned to know How false its sparkling bubbles show, No purple flowers, -no garlands How bitter are the drops of woe, With which its brim may overflow, green, Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, He has not learned to live. Nor maddening draughts of Hip- The prayer of Ajax was for light; Through all that dark and desper ate fight, pocrene, Like gleams of sunshine, flash between Thick leaves of mistletoe. This goblet, wrought with curious art, Is filled with waters, that upstart, By strong convulsions rent apart, And as it mantling passes round, With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, The blackness of that noonday He asked but the return of sight, Let our unceasing, earnest prayer Our portion of the weight of care, O suffering, sad humanity! Whose seed and foliage sun-im- Steeped to the lips in misery, |