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Sweet April !- many a thought
Life's golden fruit is shed.
WITH what a glory comes and goes the year!
There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
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.
Through tbe long reach of desert woods,
And gladden these deep solitudes.
The summer vine in beauty clung,
The crystal icicle is hung.
Pour out the river's gradual tide,
And voices fill the woodland side.
Alas ! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their merry lay,
And the song ceased not with the day.
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd ;
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.
Has grown familiar with your song;
I listen, and it cheers me long.
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM,
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER,
WHEN the dying flame of day
Had been consecrated there.
“Take thy banner! May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave;
And the strong lance shivering breaks.
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
His right hand will shield thee then,
Closes round the ghastly fight,
Spare him !-as thou wouldst be spared !
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
Martial cloak and shroud for thee.'
SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch Was glorious with the sun's returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. The clouds were far beneath me ;-bathed in light They gathered mid-way round the wooded height, And, in their fading-glory, shone Like hosts in battie 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,
If thou art worn and hard beset
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows; Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast-ushering star of morning comes O'er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf; Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade; And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. And frequent, on the everlasting hills, 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, As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
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 Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy 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