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Fresh in my mossy bed, -
A sweet, cold, silent tear.
I've heard, Sometime, a melancholy bird
Warble at my grave head.
Read this small tablet o'er, That holds my epitaph upon its cheek of pearl
Here lies a simple girl,
Who died, Like a pale flower nipt in its sweet spring tide,
Ere it bad bloomed,' No more !
A REGRET FOR CHILDHOOD.
It is not that our earlier Heaven
Escapes its April showers;
Ah! twined with grief
Each brightest leaf
The present feed its sorrow :
That waits us with the morrow.
Like sun-lit glades,
The dimmest shades
It is not that our later years
Of cares are woven wholly;
And memory's vow
To lost ones now
That smiled when clouds were o'er us; If storms should burst, uncheered we go, A drearier waste before us
And with the toys
Of childish joys,
Suon. HERE are 'jewels of earth ' from the wild
wooded glade, Oh! who doth not love them, dear gems of the
They are fair as the pearl, as the amethyst
bright, How rich is their darkness, how pure is their
light! The breeze swept this morn by their shaded
retreat, And loaded his wings with their delicate sweet. He told, as he passed me, with ecstacy swelling, Of the spoil he had found in the violet's dwell
I sought where the hazel's light banners were
streaming, And the bank of the birch tree with silver was
gleaming; Where the oak his broad branches so widely
was spreading, Whose mazes the dark - colored ivy
And there, 'neath their shadow, the flowers
were sleeping, On a bank where the green moss was silently
creeping; And I found that the wild bee before me was
come, For beauty and sweets to the violet's home.
R. 3. Andros. A SWALLOW in the spring Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves Essayed to build her nest, and there did bring
Wet earth, and straw, and leaves.
Day after day she toiled With patient art, but ere her work was crown'd, Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoil'd,
And dashed it to the ground.
She found the ruin wrought; Yet not cast down, forth from her place she flew, And with her mate fresh earth and grasses brought
And built her nest anew.
But scarcely had she placed The last soft feather on its ample floor, When wicked hands, or chance again laid waste,
And wrought the ruin o'er;
But still her heart she kept, And toil'd again; and last night, hearing calls, I look’d, and lo! three little swallows slept
Within the earth-made walls.
What truth is here, O man ! Hath hope been smitten in its earliest dawn? Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, trust or plan?
Have faith, and struggle on!
IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.
The darting swallows soar and sing,
The blue bird prophesying spring. So blue yon winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky, Where waiting till the west wind blows,
The freighted clouds at anchor lie. All things are new-the buds, the leaves,
That gild the elm-trees nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves;
There are no birds in last year's nest. All things rejoice in youth and love,
The fulness of their first delight; And learn from the soft heavens above
The melting tenderness of night. Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For O! it is not always May. Enjoy the spring of love and youth,
To some good angel leave the rest, For time will teach thee soon the truth, There are no birds in last year's nest.