Pleased with the thought, I nurse it for a while, And then dismiss it with a faint halfsmile.

And next I fancy thee a multitude, Moved by one breath, obedient to the mood

Of one strong thinker - the resistless wind,

That, passing o'er thee, bends thee to its mind.

See how thy blades, in myriads as they grow,

Turn ever eastward as the west winds blow

Just as the human crowd is swayed and bent,

By some great preacher, madly eloquent,

Who moves them at his will, and with a breath

Gives them their bias both in life and death.

Or by some wondrous actor, when he draws

All eyes and hearts, amid a hushed applause,

Not to be uttered, lest delight be marred;

Or, greater still, by hymn of prophetbard,

Who moulds the lazy present by his rhyme,

And sings the glories of a future time.

And ye are happy, green leaves, every one,

Spread in your countless thousands to the sun!

Unlike mankind, no solitary blade
Of all your verdure ever disobeyed
The law of nature: every stalk that
lifts

Its head above the mould, enjoys the gifts

Of liberal heaven - the rain, the dew, the light;

And points, though humbly, to the Infinite;

And every leaf, a populous world, maintains

Invisible nations on its wide-stretched plains.

Tell me, my secret soul,
Oh! tell ine, Hope and Faith,
Is there no resting-place
From sorrow, sin, and death?
Is there no happy spot

Where mortals may be blest,

Where grief may find a balm,

And weariness a rest? Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given,

Waved their bright wings, and whispered, "Yes, in heaven."

A DROP Of Dew.

SEE how the orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn
Into the blowing roses,

(Yet careless of its mansion new
For the clear region where 'twas born)
Round in itself incloses,
And in its little globe's extent
Frames, as it can, its native element.
How it the purple flower does slight,
Scarce touching where it lies;
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,
Like its own tear,
Because so long divided from the
sphere.

Restless it rolls, and unsecure, Trembling, lest it grow impure; Till the warm sun pities its pain, And to the skies exhales it back again. So the soul, that drop, that ray, Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Conld it within the human flower be seen,

express

The greater heaven in a heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away;
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day.
Dark beneath, but bright above;
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go!
How girt and ready to ascend!
Moving but on a point below,
It all about does upward bend.
Such did the manna's sacred dew dis-
til,

White and entire, although congealed and chill

Congealed on earth, but does, dissolving, run

Into the glories of th' almighty sun.

JERUSALEM the Golden!
I weary for one gleam

Of all thy glory folden

In distance and in dream! My thoughts, like palms in exile, Climb up to look and pray For a glimpse of thy dear country That lies so far away.

Jerusalem the Golden!

Methinks each flower that blows, And every bird a-singing

Of thee, some secret knows;

I know not what the flowers
Can feel, or singers see:
But all these summer raptures
Seem prophecies of thee.

Through childhood's morning-land,

serene

She walked betwixt us twain, like

love;

While, in a robe of light above, Her better angel walked unseen,

Till life's highway broke bleak and wild;

Then, lest her starry garments trail In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail,

The angel's arms caught up the child.

Her wave of life hath backward rolled

To the great ocean; on whose shore

We wander up and down, to store Some treasures of the times of old:

And aye we seek and hunger on

For precious pearls and relics rare, Strewn on the sands for us to wear At heart for love of her that's gone.

O weep no more! there yet is balm In Gilead! Love doth ever shed Rich healing where it nestles spread O'er desert pillows some green palm! Strange glory streams through life's wild rents; [death And through the open door of We see the heaven that beckoneth To the beloved going hence.

God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed; The best fruit loads the broken plough, And in the wounds our sufferings Immortal love sows sovereign seed.

bough;

SUMMER LONGINGS.

AH! my heart is weary waiting;

Waiting for the May.

Waiting for the pleasant rambles, Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles,

With the woodbine alternating,
Seent the dewy way.

Ah! my heart is weary waiting,-
Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May,-

Longing to escape from study,
To the young face fair and ruddy,
And the thousand charms belong-
ing

To the summer's day.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May,-

Sighing for their sure returning, When the summer beams are burn

ing,

Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,

All the winter lay.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing,

Throbbing for the May.Throbbing for the seaside billows, Or the water-wooing willows;

Where, in laughing and in sobbing, Glide the streams away.

Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing.

Throbbing for the May.

Waiting sad, dejected, weary,

Waiting for the May:

Spring goes by with wasted warnings; Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings,

Summer comes, yet dark and dreary
Life still ebbs away;

Man is ever weary, weary,
Waiting for the May!