How light we would skim, where the billows are rolled
Through clusters that bend with the cane and the lime,
And break on the beeches in surges of gold,

When morning comes forth in her loveliest prime!
We would touch for a while, as we traversed the ocean,

At the islands that echoed to Waller and Moore,

And winnow our wings, with an easier motion,

Through the breath of the cedar, that blows from the shore.

And when we had rested our wings, and had fed

On the sweetness that comes from the juniper groves,

By the spirit of home and of infancy led,

We would hurry again to the land of our loves; And when from the breast of the ocean would spring, Far off in the distance, that dear native shore,

In the joy of our hearts we would cheerily sing, "No land is so lovely, when winter is o'er."

THE LILY.

I HAD found out a sweet green spot,
Where a lily was blooming fair;

The din of the city disturbed it not,
But the spirit, that shades the quiet cot

With its wings of love, was there.

I found that lily's bloom

When the day was dark and chill:

It smiled, like a star in a misty gloom, And it sent abroad a soft perfume, Which is floating around me still.

I sat by the lily's bell,

And watched it many a day :

The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell, Grew faint and dim, then drooped and fell, And the flower had flown away.

I looked where the leaves were laid, In withering paleness, by,

And, as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said, There is many a sweet and blooming maid Who will soon as dimly die.

THE GREEK EMIGRANT'S SONG.

Now launch the boat upon the wave-
The wind is blowing off the shore—

I will not live, a cowering slave,
In these polluted islands more.
Beyond the wild, dark-heaving sea,
There is a better home for me.

The wind is blowing off the shore,
And out to sea the streamers fly-
My music is the dashing roar,

My canopy the stainless sky

It bends above so fair a blue,

That heaven seems opening to my view.

I will not live a cowering slave,

Though all the charms of life may shine Around me, and the land, the wave,

And sky be drawn in tints divineGive lowering skies and rocks to me, If there my spirit can be free.

Sweeter than spicy gales, that blow

From orange groves with wooing breath, The winds may from these islands flow,— But 'tis an atmosphere of death,

The lotus, which transformed the brave
And haughty to a willing slave.

Softer than Minder's winding stream,
The wave may ripple on this coast,
And brighter than the morning beam

In golden swell be round it tost-
Give me a rude and stormy shore,
So power can never threat me more.

Brighter than all the tales, they tell
Of eastern pomp and pageantry,
Our sunset skies in glory swell,

Hung round with glowing tapestry:
The horrors of a winter storm

Swell brighter o'er a freeman's form.

The Spring may here with Autumn twine,
And both combined may rule the year,
And fresh-blown flowers and racy wine,
In frosted clusters still be near :-
Dearer the wild and snowy hills
Where hale and ruddy Freedom smiles.

Beyond the wild dark-heaving sea,
And ocean's stormy vastness o'er,
There is a better home for me,

A welcomer and dearer shore :

There hands, and hearts, and souls, are twined, And free the man, and free the mind.

THE SPIRIT OF THE AIR.

I am the Spirit of the viewless air,

Upon the rolling clouds I plant my throne, I move serenely, when the fleet winds bear My palace in its flight, from zone to zone;

High on the mountain top I sit alone

Shrouding behind a veil of night my form, And when the trumpet of assault has blown, Career upon the pinions of the storm; By me the gales of morning sweetly blow, Waving, along the bank, the bending flowers; 'Tis at my touch the clouds dissolving flow,

When flitting o'er the sky, in silent showers; I send the breeze to play among the bowers, And curl the light green ripples on the lake; I call the sea-wind in the sultry hours,

And all his train of gentle airs awake;
I lead the zephyr on the dewy lawn

To gather up the pearls that speck it o'er,
And when the coolness of the night has gone,
I send it where the willows crown the shore;

I sit within the circle of the moon,

When the fair planet smiles, and brightly throws Around the radiance of her clearest noon,

Till every cloud, that passes by her glows, When folds of fleecy vapour hang the sky,

Borne on the night-wind through the silent air, And as they float, the stars seem rushing by,

And the moon glides away in glory there; I lead the wild fowl, when his untried wing Boldly ascends the vernal arch of blue; Before him on his airy path I fling

A magic light that safely guides him through; When lost in distant haze, I send his cry,

Floating in mellow tones along the wind,

Then like a speck of light he hurries by,

And hills, and woods, and lakes are left behind :