Imatges de pÓgina
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Fresh in my mossy bed, -
The frequent pity of the rock falls here-

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.

Anon.

It is not that our earlier Heaven

Escapes its April showers;
Or that to Childhood's heart is given
No snake amidst the flowers.

Ah! twined with grief

Each brightest leaf
That's wreathed us by the hours !
Young though we be, the past may sting,

The present feed its sorrow :
But hope shines bright on every thing

That waits us with the morrow.

Like sun-lit glades,

The dimmest shades
Some rosy beam can borrow.

It is not that our later years

Of cares are woven wholly;
But smiles less swiftly chase the tears,
And wounds are healed more slowly;

And memory's vow

To lost ones now
Makes joys too bright, unholy.
And ever fled the Iris bow

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,
We've broke the staff that bore us.

VIOLETS.

Suon. HERE are 'jewels of earth ' from the wild

wooded glade, Oh! who doth not love them, dear gems of the

shade,

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

ing.

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

threading

was

а

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.

FAITH.

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.

Longfellow.
The sun is bright, the air is clear,

The darting swallows soar and sing,
And from the stately elms I hear

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.

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