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THE FIRST of MARCH. 25
I sighed as I looked from the hill's gentle slope,
And I thought that the beacon looked lovely as Hope,
The time is long past and the scene is afar;
Will memory often rekindle the star -
And in life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies,
The First of JMarch.
HE bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud, 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
Is commissioned to remark whether Winter holds her sway;
Go back, thou dove of peace, with myrtle on thy wing,
Say that floods and tempests cease, and the world is ripe for Spring.
Thou hast fanned the sleeping earth till her dreams are all
Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave, S
The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills,
The Death of the Flowers.
HE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
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 day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
THE DEA TH OF THE FLOWERS. 27
Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers
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,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer 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 will come,
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 more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
She Walks in Beauty.
HE walks in beauty like the night
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Which waves in every raven tress,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
Hymn of the Hebrew JMaid.
HEN Israel, of the Lord beloved,
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 SENMACHERIB. 29
Then rose the choral hymn of praise,
But present still, though now unseen,
Our harps we left by Babel's streams—
The Destruction of Sennacherib.
To 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.