When the vast woodlands seem a sea of flowers,
Oh, then! my soul, exulting, bounds to thee!
Springs! as to clasp thee yet in this existence—
Yet to behold thee at my lonely side!
But the fond vision melts at once to distance,
And my sad heart gives echo-she has died.
Yes! when the morning of her years was brightest―
That angel presence into dust went down;
While yet with rosy dreams her rest was lightest-
Death for the olive wove the cypress crown;
Sleep, which no waking knows, o'ercame her bosom-
O'ercame her large, bright, spiritual eyes;
Spared in her bower connubial one fair blossom,
Then bore her spirit to the upper skies.
There let me meet her, when, life's struggles over,
The pure in love and thought their faith renew—
Where man's Forgiving and Redeeming Lover
Spreads out His paradise to every view.
Let the dim Autumn with its leaves descending
Howl on the winter's verge !-yet spring will come;
So my freed soul, no more 'gainst fate contending,
With all it loveth shall regain its home!
HAT time of year thou may'st in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by-and-by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie;
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee,
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me ;
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remem' ered.
The worth of that, is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.
WHO hath not treasured something of the past—
The lost, the buried, or the far away?
Twined with those heart affections, which outlast
All save their memories—these outlive decay!
A broken relic of our childhood's play,
A faded flower that long ago was fair-
Mute token of a love that died untold!
A silken curl, or lock of silvery hair—
The brows that bare them long since in the mould!
Though these may call up griefs that else had slept,
Their twilight sadness o'er the soul to bring;
Not every tear in bitterness is wept,
While they revive the drooping flowers that spring
Within the heart, and round its ruined temples cling,
JIME'S glory is to calm contending kings,
To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to
light,
To stamp the seal of time in aged things,
To wake the morn, and sentinel the night,
To wrong the wronger till he render right;
To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours,
And smear with dust their glittering golden towers:
To fill with worm-holes stately monuments,
To feed oblivion with decay of things,
To blot old books, and alter their contents,
To pluck the quills from ancient ravens' wings;
To dry the old oak's sap, and cherish springs;
To spoil antiquities of hammer'd steel,
And turn the giddy round of fortune's wheel:
To shew the beldame daughters of her daughter,
To make the child a man, the man a child,
To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter,
To tame the unicorn and lion wild!
To mock the subtle, in themselves beguiled;
To cheer the ploughman with increaseful crops,
And waste huge stones with little water-drops.
Comes robed in smiles, and in low breathing sounds
Gives counsel like a friend in our still hours,
And points us to the stars-the waneless stars
That whisper an hereafter to our souls;
It breathes upon our spirits a rich balm,
And with its tender tones and melody
Draws mercy from the warrior-and proclaims
A morn of bright and universal love
To those who journey with us through the vale;
It points to moral greatness-deeds of mind
And the high struggles worthy of a man.
Have we no minstrels in our echoing halls,
No wild Cadwaller with his wilder strains
Pouring his war songs on beloved ears-
We have sounds stealing from the far retreats
Of the high company of gifted men,
Who pour their mellow music round our age,
And point us to our duties and our hearts.
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