Everywhere about us are they glowing, | And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink; Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; In all places, then, and in all seasons, And with childlike, credulous affection THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous tale, Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The river flowed between. No other voice nor sound was there, But when the old cathedral bell Down the broad valley fast and far I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; But the rushing of Life's wave. And when the solemn and deep church. bell Entreats the soul to pray, Down the broad Vale of Tears afar MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DY ING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared ! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sore'y, sorely! [These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seck their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches on a similar occasion: "I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."] AN APRIL DAY. WHEN the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain. I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; When the clarion's music thrills "Take thy banner! and, beneath "Take thy banner! But when night The veil of cloud was lifted, and below | Departs with silent pace! That spirit Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow Was darkened by the forest's shade, The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash, And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, The woods were bending with a silent reach. Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; moves In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade; And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, And the wild horn, whose voice the wood-As to the sunshine and the pure, bright land fills, Was ringing to the merry shout, through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, Af thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills! No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle southwind blows; Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast ushering star of morning comes O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, |