Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet; Love with sad kisses, unfelt, hath press'd Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast; And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee, Thou'rt gone from us, bright one!-that thou shouldst die, And life be left to the butterfly !* Thou'rt gone, as a dew-drop is swept from the bough― Oh! for the world where thy home is now! How should e'en joy but a trembler be, Beautiful dust! when we look on thee? * A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptured on the mo nument. THE SUNBEAM. THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall, A bearer of hope unto land and sea- ; Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles— Thou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam, And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home. To the solemn depths of the forest shades, I look'd on the mountains- -a vapour lay I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot— And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell. To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, Thou tak'st thro' the dim church-aisle thy way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bath'd in a flood as of molten gold. And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave; Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. Sunbeam of summer! oh! what is like thee? One thing is like thee to mortals given, The faith touching all things with hues of Heaven! BREATHINGS OF SPRING. Thou giv'st me flowers, thou giv'st me songs;-bring back WHAT wak'st thou, Spring ?--sweet voices in the woods, And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute; Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes, The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, Ev'n as our hearts may be. And the leaves greet thee, Spring!-the joyous leaves, Tell that thy footsteps pass. |