The sun of May was bright in middle heaven, Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom, 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 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 Partridge they call him by our northern streams, '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 Bare sands and pleasant homes, and flowery nooks, Darts by so swiftly that their images Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell “Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long, 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 Is at my side, his voice is in my ear. LINES IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM LEGGETT. THE earth may ring, from shore to shore, But he, whose loss our tears deplore, For when the death-frost came to lie The words of fire that from his pen His love of truth, too warm, too strong 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: In the red West. The green blade of the ground Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown In noisome cells of the tumultuous town, |