And lightly o'er the living scene Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. New-born flocks, in rustic dance, Frisking ply their feeble feet; Forgetful of their wintry trance, The birds his presence greet: But chief, the sky-lark warbles high His trembling thrilling ecstacy; And, lessening from the dazzled sight, Melts into air and liquid light. Rise, my soul! on wings of fire, * Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Mute was the music of the air, The herd stood drooping by: Their raptures now that wildly flow, No yesterday nor morrow know; 'T is man alone that joy descries, With forward, and reverted eyes. Smiles on past misfortune's brow Soft reflection's hand can trace; And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw A melancholy grace; While hope prolongs our happier hour, Still, where rosy pleasure leads, The hues of bliss more brightly glow, See the wretch, that long has tost The meanest floweret of the vale, Humble quiet builds her cell, Near the source whence pleasnre flows; She eyes the clear crystalline well, And tastes it as it goes. GRAY. (Left unfinished.) Hope Deferred. I. "T is long since we were forced to part, at least it seems so to my grief, For sorrow wearies us like time, but ah! it brings not time's relief; As in our days of tenderness, before me still she seems to glide; And though my arms are wide as then, yet she will not abide. The day-light and the star-light shine, as if her eyes were in their light, And whispering in the panting breeze, her love-songs come at lonely night; While, far away with those less dear, she tries to hide her grief in vain, For, kind to all while true to me, it pains her to give pain. II. I know she never spoke her love, she never breathed a single vow, And yet I'm sure she loved me then, and still doats on me now; For, when we met, her eyes grew glad, and heavy when I left her side, And oft she said she 'd be most happy as a poor man's bride, I toiled to win a pleasant home, and make it ready by the spring; The spring is past—what season now my girl unto our home will bring? I'm sick and weary, very weary-watching, morning, night, and noon; How long you 're coming-I am dying—will you not come soon? THOMAS DAVIS. Sonnet cxvi. LET me not to the marriage of true minds That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. SHAKSPEARE. Rural Sounds. NOR rural sights alone, but rural sounds, The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds, Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip To soothe and satisfy the human ear. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The live-long night: nor these alone, whose notes Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain, But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still repeated circles, screaming loud, |