Full oft my gladden'd eye

In pleasant glade, or river's marge, has traced (As if there planted by the hand of taste) Sweet flowers of every dye.

But never did I see,

In mead, or mountain, or domestic bower,
'Mong many a lovely and delicious flower,
One half so fair as thee!

Thy beauty makes rejoice

My inmost heart-I know not how 'tis so,Quick coming fancies thou dost make me know, For fragrance is thy voice.

And still it comes to me,

In quiet night, and turmoil of the day,
Like memory of friends gone far away,
Or, haply, ceased to be.

Together we'll commune,

As lovers do, when, standing all apart,
No one o'erhears the whispers of their heart,
Save the all-silent moon.

Thy thoughts I can divine, Although not utter'd in vernacular words, Thou me remind'st of songs of forest birds; Of venerable wine;

Of earth's fresh shrubs and roots;

Of summer days, when men their thirsting slake In the cool fountain, or the cooler lake,

While eating wood-grown fruits.

RUDOLPH.

Thy leaves my memory tell

Of sights and scents and sounds, that come again,
Like ocean's murmurs, when the balmy strain
Is echoed in its shell.

The meadows in their green,
Smooth-running waters in the far-off ways,
The deep-voiced forest where the hermit prays,
In thy fair face are seen.

Thy home is in the wild,

'Mong sylvan shades, near music haunted springs, Where peace dwells all apart from earthly things, Like some secluded child.

The beauty of the sky,

The music of the woods, the love that stirs
Wherever Nature charms her worshippers,
Are all by thee brought nigh.

I shall not soon forget

What thou hast taught me in my solitude,
My feelings have acquired a taste of good,
Sweet flower! since first we met.

WM. ANDERSON.

RUDOLPH.

RUDOLPH, professor of the headsman's trade,
Alike was famous for his arm and blade.
One day a prisoner justice had to kill,
Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill.

141

Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy-browed,
Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd,
His falchion lighten'd with a sudden gleam,
As the pike's armour flashes in the stream.
He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go;
The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow.
“Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous act,”
The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly crack'd.)
"Friend, I have struck," the artist straight replied;
"Wait but one moment, and yourself decide."
He held his snuff-box-" Now then, if you please!"
The prisoner sniffed, and with a crashing sneeze,
Off his head tumbled-bowled along the floor-
Bounced down the steps; the prisoner said no more.
OLIVER W. HOLMES.

MARIUS AMID THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

PILLARS are fallen at thy feet,

Fanes quiver in the air,

A prostrate city is thy seat,
And thou alone art there.

No change comes o'er thy noble brow,
Though ruin is around thee;
Thine eyebeam burns as proudly now
As when the laurel crowned thee.

It cannot bend thy lofty soul

Though friends and fame depart—
The car of Fate may o'er thee roll
Nor crush thy Roman heart.

THE SWALLOW'S FLIGHT.

And genius hath electric power

Which earth can never tame;

Bright suns may scorch and dark clouds lower,
Its flash is still the same.

The dreams we loved in early life

May melt like mist away;

High thoughts may seem, 'mid passion's strife,

Like Carthage in decay;

And proud hopes in the human heart

May be to ruin hurled;

Like mouldering monuments of art
Heaped on a sleeping world;

Yet there is something will not die
Where life hath once been fair;

Some towering thoughts still rear on high,
Some Roman lingers there!

143

LYDIA M. CHILD.

THE SWALLOW'S FLIGHT.

WHITHER away, Swallow,
Whither away?

Canst thou no longer tarry in the North

Here where our roof so well hath screened thy nest?
Not one short day?

Wilt thou-as if thou human wert-go forth
And wanton far from them that love thee best?

Whither away.

E. C. STEDMAN.

144

LITTLE SEEDS.

FROM the little acorn
Grows the mighty oak;

And the King of Forest-trees
Yields to the woodman's stroke;
So young folks, pray remember
That your most trifling deed
May heal a wound that rankles,
Or make a heart to bleed;
That your most trifling answer
May aid some one that hears,
Or leave a smouldering sense of wrong
To deepen through the years:
So weigh your words; be careful
To give offence to none;
Believing that you always gain
By gentle word and tone.

J.