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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 life is cold, and dark, and dreary ;
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining;
Some days must be dark and dreary.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
He earns whate'er he can,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
With measured beat and slow,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
And hear the bellows roar,
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys ;
He hears his daughter's voice,
And it makes his heart rejoice;
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise !
How in the grave she lies;
A tear out of his eyes.
Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees its close; Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
The rising moon has hid the stars;
Lie on the landscape green,
And silver white the river gleams,
Had dropt her silver bow
On such a tranquil night as this,
When, sleeping in the grove,
Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
It comes—the beautiful, the free,
In silence and alone
To seek the elected one.
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him who slumbering lies.
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.
And whispers, in its song,
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 blessed 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.