Sweet April!-many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; AUTUMN. WITH What a glory comes and goes the year! There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, And from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And, dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales The gentle Wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man sits down By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves. The purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud From cottage-roofs the warbling blue-bird sings; And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. Oh, what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear. WOODS IN WINTER. WHEN winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, Where, twisted round the barren oak, Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear I hear it in the opening year,- HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER, WHEN the dying flame of day The blood-red banner, that with prayer And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while "Take thy banner! May it wave "Take thy banner! But, when night Spare him!-he our love hath shared! "Take thy banner!-and if e'er Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, The warrior took that banner proud, SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch The clouds were far beneath me ;-bathed in light Like hosts in battle overthrown. As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, Through the grey mist thrust up its shattered lance, And rocking on the cliff was left The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft, The veil of cloud was lifted, and below Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow Was darkened by the forest's shade, I heard the distant waters dash, And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, The music of the village bell Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, That faint and far the glen sent out, Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows; Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards For them there was an eloquent voice in all vale, The distant lake, fountains,-and mighty trees, Their old poetic legends to the wind. And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature,-of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her check Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, It is so like the gentle air of Spring, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes To have it round us,-and her silver voice Is the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night with its passionate cadence. BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. ON sunny slope and beechen swell, Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, In the warm blush of evening shone; An image of the silver lakes, By which the Indian's soul awakes. |