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THE FIRST OF MARCH.
I sighed as I looked from the hill's gentle slope,
All hushed was the billow's commotion ;
That star of life's tremulous ocean.
The time is long past and the scene is afar;
Yet, when my head rests on its pillow, Will memory often rekindle the star
That blazed on the breast of the billow.
And in life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies,
And death stills the heart's last emotion, O then may the Seraph of mercy arise, Like a star on eternity's ocean.
The First of March.
And earth's beginning now in her veins to feel the blood, Which, warmed by summer's sun in the alembic of the vine, From her founts will overrun in a ruddy gush of wine.
The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the flower, Are quickening in the gloom of their subterranean bower; And the juices meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits, Unerringly proceed to their pre-appointed roots.
How awful is the thought of the wonders under ground,
The summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinioned day
Thou hast fanned the sleeping earth till her dreams are all
of flowers, And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging bowers; The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves, And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer eves.
Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave,
wing, Have started from their sleep at the summons of the Spring.
The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills,
The Death of the Flowers.
brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove the autumn leaves lie
dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the
jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang
and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ?
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November
rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty
stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the
plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland,
glade, and glen.
And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the
trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late
he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the
leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
WILLIAM C. BRYANT.
She Walks in Beauty.
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
Meets in her aspect and her eyes ; Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
Hymn of the Hebrew Maid. WH
THEN Israel, of the Lord beloved,
Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved,
An awful guide in smoke and flame.
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
Returned the fiery column's glow.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 29
Then rose the choral hymn of praise,
And trump and timbrel answered keen;
With priests' and warriors' voice between.
Forsaken Israel wanders lone;
And thou hast left them to their own.
But present still, though now unseen,
When brightly shines the prosperous day,
To temper the deceitful ray.
In shade and storm, the frequent night,
A burning and a shining light!
Our harps we left by Babel's streams
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn;
And mute are timbrel, trump and horn.
The flesh of rams, I will not prize;
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
The Destruction of Sennacherib.
HE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.