TO SPRING.

BY ALBERT PIKE.

OH thou delicious Spring!

Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers, Which fall from clouds that lift their snowy wing From odorous beds of light-infolded flowers,

And from enmass'd bowers,

That over grassy walks their greenness fling,
Come, gentle Spring!

Thou lover of young wind,

That cometh from the invisible upper sea

Beneath the sky, which clouds, its white foam, bind, And, settling in the trees deliciously,

Makes young leaves dance with glee,

Even in the teeth of that old sober hind,
Winter unkind,

Come to us; for thou art

Like the fine love of children, gentle Spring!
Touching the sacred feeling of the heart,
Or like a virgin's pleasant welcoming;
And thou dost ever bring

A tide of gentle but resistless art
Upon the heart.

Red Autumn from the south

Contends with thee: alas! what may he show?
What are his purple-stain❜d and rosy mouth
And browned cheeks, to thy soft feet of snow,
And timid, pleasant glow,

Giving earth-piercing flowers their primal growth,
And greenest youth?

TO SPRING.

Gay Summer conquers thee;

And yet he has no beauty such as thine:
What is his ever-streaming, fiery sea,

To the pure glory that with thee doth shine?
Thou season most divine,

What may his dull and lifeless minstrelsy
Compare with thee?

Come, sit upon the hills,

And bid the waking streams leap down their side,
And green the vales with their slight-sounding rills;
And when the stars upon the sky shall glide,
And crescent Dian ride,

I too will breathe of thy delicious thrills,
On grassy hills.

Alas! bright Spring, not long

Shall I enjoy thy pleasant influence;

For thou shalt die the summer heat among, Sublimed to vapour in his fire intense,

And, gone for ever hence,

Exist no more: no more to earth belong,
Except in song.

So I who sing shall die:

Worn unto death, perchance, by care and sorrow ;
And, fainting thus with an unconscious sigh,
Bid unto this poor body a good morrow,

Which now sometimes I borrow,

And breathe of joyance keener and more high,
Ceasing to sigh!

91

SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER.

BY ANDREWS NORTON.

THE rain is o'er. How dense and bright
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie!
Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight,
Contrasting with the dark blue sky!

In grateful silence, earth receives

The general blessing; fresh and fair,
Each flower expands its little leaves,
As glad the common joy to share.

The soften'd sunbeams pour around
A fairy light, uncertain, pale;
The wind flows cool; the scented ground
Is breathing odours on the gale.

Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile,
Methinks some spirit of the air
Might rest, to gaze below a while,
Then turn to bathe and revel there.

The sun breaks forth; from off the scene
Its floating veil of mist is flung;
And all the wilderness of green

With trembling drops of light is hung.

Now gaze on Nature yet the same-
Glowing with life, by breezes fann'd,
Luxuriant, lovely, as she came,

Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand.

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

Hear the rich music of that voice,

Which sounds from all below, above;

She calls her children to rejoice,

And round them throws her arms of love.

Drink in her influence; lowborn Care,

And all the train of mean Desire,
Refuse to breathe this holy air,
And mid this living light expire,

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

BY JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

WHAT is there saddening in the autumn leaves?
Have they that "green and yellow melancholy"
That the sweet poet spake of?-Had he seen
Our variegated woods, when first the frost
Turns into beauty all October's charms-
When the dread fever quits us—when the storms
Of the wild equinox, with all its wet,

Has left the land, as the first deluge left it,
With a bright bow of many colours hung
Upon the forest tops-he had not sigh'd.

The moon stays longest for the hunter now:
The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe
And busy squirrel hoards his winter store:
While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along
The bright, blue sky above him, and that bends
Magnificently all the forest's pride,

Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks,
“What is there saddening in the autumn leaves?"

93

NEW ENGLAND.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

LAND of the forest and the rock

Of dark blue lake and mighty river— Of mountains rear'd aloft to mock The storm's career, the lightning's shockMy own green land for ever!

Land of the beautiful and brave

The freeman's home-the martyr's grave-
The nursery of giant men,

Whose deeds have link'd with every glen,
And every hill and every stream,
The romance of some warrior-dream!
O! never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above

His childhood like a dream of love;
The stream beneath the green hill flowing,
The broad-arm'd trees above it growing,
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing;
Or hear unmoved the taunt of scorn
Breathed o'er the brave New England born;
Or mark the stranger's jaguar-hand

Disturb the ashes of thy dead,

The buried glory of a land

Whose soil with noble blood is red,
And sanctified in every part,—
Nor feel resentment like a brand,
Unsheathing from his fiery heart!