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f Adieu, O, fatherland! I see

Your white cliffs on the horizon's rim,
And, though to freer skies I flee,

My heart swells, and my eyes are dim!
As knows the dove the task you give her,
When loosed upon a foreign shore;
As spreads the rain-drop in the river
In which it may have flow'd before-
To England, over vale and mountain,

My fancy flew from climes more fair,
My blood, that knew its parent fountain,
Ran warm and fast in England's air.

My mother! in thy prayer to-night

There come new words and warmer tears!
On long, long darkness breaks the light,

Comes home the loved, the lost for years!
Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner,

Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea!
The ear of Heaven bends low to her!

He comes to shore who sails with me!
The wind-toss'd spider needs no token
How stands the tree when lightnings blaze:
And, by a thread from heaven unbroken,
I know my mother lives and prays!

Dear mother! when our lips can speak,
When first our tears will let us see,
When I can gaze upon thy cheek,

And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me→→ 'T will be a pastime little sad

To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers

Upon each other's forms have had;

For all may flee, so feeling lingers!
But there's a change, beloved mother,
To stir far deeper thoughts of thine;
I come-but with me comes another,

To share the heart once only mine!
Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely,
One star arose in memory's heaven;
Thou, who hast watch'd one treasure only,
Water'd one flower with tears at even:
Room in thy heart! The hearth she left
Is darken'd to make light to ours!
There are bright flowers of care bereft,

And hearts that languish more than flowers; She was their light, their very air-- [prayer! Room, mother, in thy heart! place for her in thy

SPRING.

THE Spring is here, the delicate-footed May,
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers;
And with it comes a thirst to be away,
Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours;
A feeling that is like a sense of wings,
Restless to soar above these perishing things.

We
pass out from the city's feverish hum,
To find refreshment in the silent woods;
And nature, that is beautiful and dutib,

Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods;
Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal,
To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.

I KNOW not if the sunshine waste,
The world is dark since thou art gone!
The hours are, O! so leaden-paced!

The birds sing, and the stars float on,
But sing not well, and look not fair;
A weight is in the summer air,

And sadness in the sight of flowers;
And if I go where others smile,

Their love but makes me think of ours,
And Heaven gets my heart the while.
Like one upon a desert isle,

I languish of the dreary hours;

I never thought a life could be

So flung upon one hope, as mine, dear love, on thee!

I sit and watch the summer sky:

There comes a cloud through heaven alone;
A thousand stars are shining nigh,

It feels no light, but darkles on!
Yet now it nears the lovelier moon,
And, flashing through its fringe of snow,
There steals a rosier dye, and soon

Its bosom is one fiery glow!
The queen of life within it lies,

Yet mark how lovers meet to part: The cloud already onward flies,

And shadows sink into its heart; And (dost thou see them where thou art?) Fade fast, fade all those glorious dyes! Its light, like mine, is seen no more, And, like my own, its heart seems darker than

before.

Room, gentle flowers! my child would pass to heaven!
Ye look'd not for her yet with your soft eyes,
O, watchful ushers at Death's narrow door!
But, lo! while you delay to let her forth,
Angels, beyond, stay for her! One long kiss
From lips all pale with agony, and tears,
Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire
The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life
Held as a welcome to her. Weep, O, mother!
But not that from this cup of bitterness
A cherub of the sky has turn'd away.
One look upon her face ere she depart!
My daughter! it is soon to let thee go!

My daughter! with thy birth has gush'd a spring
I knew not of: filling my heart with tears,
And turning with strange tenderness to thee!
A love-O, GOD, it seems so-which must flow
Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt Heaven and me,
Henceforward, be a sweet and yearning chain,
Drawing me after thee! And so farewell!
'Tis a harsh world in which affection knows
No place to treasure up its loved and lost
But the lone grave! Thou, who so late was sleeping
Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart,
Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving,
But it was sent thee with some tender thought-
How can I leave thee here! Alas, for man!
The herb in its humility may fall,
And waste into the bright and genial air,
While we, by hands that minister'd in life
Nothing but love to us, are thrust away,
The earth thrown in upon our just cold bosoms,
And the warm sunshine trodden out forever!
Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child,
A bank where I have lain in summer hours,
And thought how little it would seem like death
To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook
Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps
That lead us to thy bed, would still trip on,
Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone;
The birds are never silent that build here,
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters;
The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers;
And, far below, seen under arching leaves,
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire,
Pointing the living after thee. And this
Seems like a comfort, and, replacing now
The flowers that have made room for thee, I go
To whisper the same peace to her who lies
Robb'd of her child, and lonely. "T is the work
Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer,
To bring the heart back from an infant gone!
Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot
Its images from all the silent rooms,

And every sight and sound familiar to her Undo its sweetest link; and so, at last,

The fountain that, once loosed, must flow forever,
Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile
Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring
Wakens its buds above thee, we will come,
And, standing by thy music-haunted grave,
Look on each other cheerfully, and say,
A child that we have loved is gone to heaven,
And by this gate of flowers she pass'd away!

THE BELFRY PIGEON.

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air;

I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him as he springs,
Circling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has pass'd,
And the belfry edge is gain'd at last.
"T is a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel,
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell-
Chime of the hour, or funeral knell-
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon,
When the sexton cheerly rings for noon,
When the clock strikes clear at morning light,
When the child is waked with "nine at night,"
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,-
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smoothe his breast,
Then drops again, with filmed eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen!
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men;
And daily, with unwilling feet,

I tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o'er,
Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar,
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,
Canst smoothe thy feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.

I would that, in such wings of gold,
I could my weary heart upfold;

I would I could look down unmoved,
(Unloving as I am unloved,)

And, while the world throngs on beneath,
Smoothe down my cares and calmly breathe;
And never sad with others' sadness,
And never glad with others' gladness,
Listen, unstirr'd, to knell or chime,
And, lapp'd in quiet, bide my time.

APRIL.

"A violet by a mossy stone, Half-hidden from the eye, Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky."

WORDSWORTH.

I HAVE found violets. April hath come on,
And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain
Falls in the beaded drops of summer-time.
You may hear birds at morning, and at eve
The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls,
Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in
His beautiful, bright neck; and, from the hills,
A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea,
Tells the release of waters, and the earth
Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves
Are lifted by the grass; and so I know
That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard
The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring.
Take of my violets! I found them where
The liquid south stole o'er them, on a bank
That lean'd to running water. There's to me
A daintiness about these early flowers,
That touches me like poetry. They blow
With such a simple loveliness among
The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out
Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts
Whose beatings are too gentle for the world.
I love to go in the capricious days
Of April and hunt violets, when the rain
Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod
So gracefully to the kisses of the wind.
It may be deem'd too idle, but the young
Read nature like the manuscript of Heaven,
And call the flowers its poetry. Go out!
Ye spirits of habitual unrest,

And read it, when the "fever of the world"
Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life
Hath yet one spring unpoison'd, it will be
Like a beguiling music to its flow,
And you will no more wonder that I love
To hunt for violets in the April-time.

THE ANNOYER.

LOVE knoweth every form of air,
And every shape of earth,
And comes, unbidden, everywhere,

Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky

Are written with Love's words, And you hear his voice unceasingly, Like song, in the time of birds.

He peeps into the warrior's heart

From the tip of a stooping plume,

And the serried spears, and the many men, May not deny him room.

He'll come to his tent in the weary night,

And be busy in his dream,

And he'll float to his eye in morning light, Like a fay on a silver beam.

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,
And rides on the echo back,
And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf,

And flits in his woodland track.
The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river.
The cloud, and the open sky,-

He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,
Like the light of your very eye.

The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,
And ponders the silver sea,
For Love is under the surface hid,

And a spell of thought has he;
He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet,

And speaks in the ripple low,
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,

And the hook hangs bare below.

He blurs the print of the scholar's book,

And intrudes in the maiden's prayer, And profanes the cell of the holy man In the shape of a lady fair. In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, In earth, and sea, and sky, In every home of human thought Will Love be lurking nigh.

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