Imágenes de páginas

At her approach, 0, be it mine to lie
Where spreading beeches cooling shades supply;
Or with her let me (

) at early morn,
When drops of pearly dew the grass adorn;
Or, at soft twilight, when the flocks repose,
And the bright star of evening mildly (

Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare .
The name and lineage of this blooming fair.

[ocr errors]

Who may he be that next, with sober pace,
Comes stealing on us ? Sallow is his (

The grape's red blood distains his robes around;
His temples with a wheaten sheaf are bound;
His hair hath just begun to fall away,
The auburn (
) with the mournful (

The ripe, brown nuts he scatters to the swain;
He winds the horn, and calls the hunter train ;
The gun is heard ; the trembling partridge bleeds;
The beauteous pheasant to his fate succeeds.
Who is he with the wheaten sheaf? Declare,
If ye can tell, ye youths and maidens ( . ).
Who is he from the north that speeds his way

Thick furs and wool (

) his warm array:
His cloak is closely folded; bald his head;
His beard of clear, sharp icicles is made.
By blazing fire he loves to stretch his limbs;
With skate-bound feet the frozen lakes he (
When he is by with breath so piercing cold,
No floweret dares its tender (..

) unfold.
Naught can his powerful, freezing touch withstand;
And, should he smite you with his chilling (.. )
Your stiffened form would on his snows be cast,
Or stand, like marble, breathless as he passed.
Ye youths and maidens, does he yet appear ?
Fast he approaches, and will soon be (

Declare, I pray you, tell me, if you can,
The name and lineage of this aged man.


[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]


MORNING IN SPRING. How sweet the landscape! Morning twines

Her tresses round the brow of Day, And bright mists, o'er the forest pines,

Like happy spirits, float away, To revel on the mountain's crown, Whence the glad stream comes shouting down, Through woods and rocks, that hang on high, Like clouds against the deep-blue sky.

The woven sounds of bird and stream

Are falling beautiful and deep
Upon the spirit, like a dream

Of music on the hour of sleep;
And gently from the dewy bowers
Soft murmurs, like the breath of flowers,
Are winding through the purple grove,
And blending with the notes of love.

The streams in veins of silver flow;

The surrise gale o'er flower and tree
So lightly breathes, it scarce would blow

A fairy bark upon the sea;
[t comes so fresh, so calm, so sweet,
It draws the heart from its retreat,
To mingle in the glories born

In the first holy light of morn.
A cloud is on the sky above;

And calmly, o'er the young year blue, 'T is coming like a thing of love,

To gladden in the rising dew:
Its white waves with the sunlight blend,
And gentle spirits seem to bend
From its unrolling folds, to hear
The glad sounds of our joyous sphere.
The lake, unruffled by the breeze,

Smiles in its deep, unbroken rest,
As it were dreaming of the trees

And blossoms pictured on its breast; Its depths are glowing, bright, and fair, And the far skies seem hollowed there,

Soft trembling as they felt the thrill
Of music echoed from the hill.

The living soul of beauty fills

The air with glorious visions : bright They linger round the sunny hills,

And wander in the clear, blue light: Off to the breathing heavens they go, Along the earth they live and glow, Shed o'er the lake their happy smiles, And beckon to its glittering isles.

0, at this hour, when air and earth

Are gushing love, and joy, and light,
And songs of gladness, at the birth

Of all that's beautiful and bright,
Each heart beats high; each thought is blown
To flame; the spirit drinks the tone
Of brighter worlds, and melts away,
In visions of eternal day.




Dust on thy mantle ! dust, Bright Summer, on thy livery of green!

A tarnish, as of rust,

Dims thy late brilliant sheen; And thy young glories,-leaf, and bud, and flower, Change cometh over them with every hour.

Thee hath the August sun
Looked on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face ;

And still and lazily run,

Scarce whispering in their pace,
The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent
A shout of gladness up, as on they went.

Flame-like, the long mid-day!
With not so much of sweet air as hath stirred
The down upon

the spray,
Where rests the panting bird,

Dozing away the hot and tedious noon,
With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune.

Seeds in the sultry air,
And gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees !

E'en the tall pines, that rear

Their plumes to catch the breeze, The slightest breeze from the unfreshening west, Partake the general languor and deep rest.

Happy, as man may be, Stretched on his back, in homely bean-vine bower,

While the voluptuous bee

Robs each surrounding flower And prattling childhood clambers o'er his breast, The husbandman enjoys his noonday rest.

Against the hazy sky
The thin and fleecy clouds, unmoving, rest.

Beneath them far, yet high

In the dim, distant west,
The vulture, scenting thence its carrion-fare,
Sails, slowly circling in the sunny air.

Soberly, in the shade, Repose the patient cow,

and toil-worn ox;
Or in the shoal stream wade,

Sheltered by jutting rocks:
The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, rush
Madly from fence to fence, from bush to bush.

Tediously pass the hours,
And vegetation wilts, with blistered root,

And droop the thirsting flowers,

Where the slant sunbeams shoot: But of each tall, old tree, the lengthening line, Slow-creeping eastward, marks the day's decline.

Faster, along the plain, Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's edge :

The kine are forth again,

The bird flits in the hedge.
Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun.
Welcome, mild eve! the sultry day is done.

Pleasantly comest thou,
Dew of the evening, to the crisped-up grass ;

And the curled corn-blades bow,

As the light breezes pass,
That their parched lips may feel thee, and expand,
Thou sweet reviver of the fevered land.

So, to the thirsting soul,
Cometh the dew of the Almighty's love:

And the scathed heart, made whole,

Turneth in joy above,
To where the spirit freely may expand,
And rove untrammeled in that “ better land.”




The summer day has closed, the sun is set:
Well have they done their office, those bright hours,
The latest of whose train goes softly out
In the red west. The green blade of the ground
Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig
Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun;
Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown,
And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil
From bursting cells, and, in their graves, await
Their resurrection.

Insects from the pools
Have filled the air awhile with humming wings,
That now are still forever; painted moths
Have wandered the blue sky, and died again;
The mother-bird hath broken for her brood
Their prison-shells, or shoved them from their nest,
Plumed for their earliest flight.

In bright alcoves,
In woodland cottages with earthy walls,
In noisome cells of the tumultuous town,
Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe.
Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore
Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways
Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out,

« AnteriorContinuar »