The sun of May was bright in middle heaven,
And steeped the sprouting forests, the green hills
And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light.
Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds

Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom,
The robin warbled forth his full clear note

For hours, and wearied not.

Within the woods,

Whose young and half transparent leaves scarce cast

A shade, gay circles of anemones

Danced on their stalks; the shadbush, white with flowers, Brightened the glens; the new-leaved butternut

And quivering poplar to the roving breeze

Gave a balsamic fragrance. In the fields

I saw the pulses of the gentle wind

On the young grass. My heart was touched with joy At so much beauty, flushing every hour

Into a fuller beauty; but my friend,

The thoughtful ancient, standing at my side,

Gazed on it mildly sad. I asked him why.

"Well mayst thou join in gladness," he replied,

With the glad earth, her springing plants and flowers, And this soft wind, the herald of the green

Luxuriant summer.

Thou art young like them,

And well mayst thou rejoice. But while the flight
Of seasons fills and knits thy spreading frame,

It withers mine, and thins my hair, and dims

These eyes, whose fading light shall soon be quenched Hearest thou that bird?"

In utter darkness.

I listened, and from midst the depth of woods
Heard the love-signal of the grouse, that wears
A sable ruff around his mottled neck;

Partridge they call him by our northern streams,
And pheasant by the Delaware. He beat

'Gainst his barred sides his speckled wings, and made A sound like distant thunder; slow the strokes

At first, then fast and faster, till at length

They passed into a murmur and were still.

"There hast thou," said my friend, "a fitting type Of human life. 'Tis an old truth, I know, But images like these revive the power Of long familiar truths. Slow pass our days In childhood, and the hours of light are long Betwixt the morn and eve; with swifter lapse They glide in manhood, and in age they fly; Till days and seasons flit before the mind As flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm, Seen rather than distinguished. Ah! I seem As if I sat within a helpless bark

By swiftly running waters hurried on

To shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banks
Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock,

Bare sands and pleasant homes, and flowery nooks,
And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear
Each after each, but the devoted skiff

Darts by so swiftly that their images

Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell
In dim confusion; faster yet I sweep
By other banks, and the great gulf is near.

“Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long,
And this fair change of seasons passes slow,
Gather and treasure up the good they yield—
All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts
And kind affections, reverence for thy God
And for thy brethren; so when thou shalt come
Into these barren years, thou mayst not bring

A mind unfurnished and a withered heart."

Long since that white-haired ancient slept-but still, When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard bough,

And the ruffed grouse is drumming far within
The woods, his venerable form again

Is at my side, his voice is in my ear.

LINES IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM LEGGETT.

THE earth may ring, from shore to shore,
With echoes of a glorious name,

But he, whose loss our tears deplore,
Has left behind him more than fame.

For when the death-frost came to lie
On Leggett's warm and mighty heart,
And quenched his bold and friendly eye,
His spirit did not all depart.

The words of fire that from his pen
Were flung upon the fervent page,
Still move, still shake the hearts of men,
Amid a cold and coward age.

His love of truth, too warm, too strong
For Hope or Fear to chain or chill,

His hate of tyranny and wrong,

Burn in the breasts he kindled still.

AN EVENING REVERY.

FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM.

THE summer day is closed-the sun is set:
Well they have done their office, those bright hours,
The latest of whose train goes softly out

In the red West. The green blade of the ground
Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig
Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun;

Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown
And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil,
From bursting cells, and in their graves await
Their resurrection. Insects from the pools
Have filled the air awhile with humming wings,
That now are still for ever; painted moths
Have wandered the blue sky, and died again;
The mother-bird hath broken for her brood
Their prison shell, or shoved them from the nest,
Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves,
In woodland cottages with barky walls,

In noisome cells of the tumultuous town,
Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe.