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And when see that lock of gold,
Pale grows the evening-red; And when the dark lock I behold,
I wish that I were dead.
IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.
THE sun is bright, the air is clear,
The darting swallows soar and sing, And from the stately elms I hear
The blue-bird prophesying Spring. So blue yon winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky, Where waiting till the west wind blows,
The freighted clouds at anchor lie, All things are new ;-the buds, the leaves,
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves;
There are no birds in last year's nest! All things rejoice in youth and love,
The fulness of their first delight! And learn from the soft heavens above
The melting tenderness of night. Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth-it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For, oh! it is not always May! Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,
To some good angel leave the rest; For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
There are no birds in last year's nest !
THE RAINY DAY.
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
And the day is dark and dreary.
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's-Acre! Yes, that blessèd name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas, no more their own!
In the sure faith that we shall rise again
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.
With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and acre of our God,
This is the place where human harvests grow!
TO THE RIVER CHARLES.
River! that in silence windest
Through the meadows, bright and free,
In the bosom of the sea!
Four long years of mingled feeling,
Half in rest and half in strife,
Onward, like the stream of life.
Thou hast taught me, silent River !
Many a lesson, deep and long;
I can give thee but a song.
I have watched thy current glide,
Overflowed me, like a tide,
When I saw thy waters gleam,
And leap onward with thy stream.
Nor because thy waves of blue
Take their own celestial hue.
Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,
And thy waters disappear,
And have made thy margin dear.
More than this ;-thy name reminds me
Of three friends, all true and tried ;
Closer, closer to thy side.
How like quivering flames they start,
On the hearth-stone of my heart !
That my spirit leans to thee;
Take this idle song from me.
But still, above the noisy crowd,
Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,
THE GOBLET OF LIFE.
FILLED is Life's goblet to the brim;
With solemn voice and slow.
Thick leaves of mistletoe.
This goblet, wrought with curious art,
Are running all to waste.
And give a bitter taste.
Lost vision to restore.
It gave new strength and fearless mood;
A wreath of fennel wore.
New light and strength they give!
He has not learned to live.
The prayer of Ajax was for light;
To see his foeman's face.
ones, who lie
Let our unceasing, earnest prayer
One half the human race.
afflicted Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, and yet afraid to die,
Patient, though sorely tried! I pledge you in this cup of grief, Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf ! The battle of our life is brief, The alarm,—the struggle,-the relief,
Then sleep we side by side.
MAIDEN! with the meek, brown eyes,