Fluttering in vain for the far cloudless day, And for the angel's song ?
It mounts! It mounts! Oh, spread The banner of gay victory—and sing
For the enfranchised—and bright garlands bringBut weep not for the dead!
"And there were sudden partings such as press The life from out young hearts." CHILDE HAROLD.
THERE is an hour-an hour of bliss, A moment rich with happiness,
When cares and sighs depart ; When they that love, approach to meet The mutual welcome, and the sweet Response of heart to heart.
There is an hour of sadness too
When o'er our joys that dread 'adieu'
Falls like a withering blast;
When hands are linked and fondly pressed,
With heaving sighs and throbbing breastThose traitors of the past.
When bitter thoughts arise so strong, And kind affection lingers long
To meet the last farewell ;'
When flowing tears are freely sent From struggling souls, more eloquent Than words, those thoughts to tell.
'Twas thus we parted-but a thrill Of joyful hope pervaded still
The grief-impassioned heart, Which told of brighter hours, to be From doubt and disappointment free, When bound in sweetest sympathy
We meet-but not to part.
WELL do I love those various harmonies That ring so gaily in Spring's budding woods, And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts, And lonely copses of the Summer-time, And in red Autumn's ancient solitudes.
If thou art pained with the World's noisy stir Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weighed down With any of the ills of human life;
If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss
Of brethren gone to that far-distant land
To which we all do pass, gentle and poor, The gayest and the gravest, all alike— Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear The thrilling music of the forest birds.
How rich the varied choir. The unquiet finch Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times, And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps half hid Amid the lowly dog-wood's snowy flowers, And the blue Jay flits by, from tree to tree; And spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry.
With the sweet airs of Spring the Robin comes, And in her simple song there seems to gush A strain of sorrow when she visiteth
Her last year's withered nest. But when the gloom Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch Upon the red-stemmed hazel's slender twig That overhangs the brook, and suits her song To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime.
In the last days of Autumn, when the corn Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest field, And the gay company of reapers bind
The bearded wheat in sheaves, then peals abroad The Blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear, Bold plunderer! thy mellow burst of song Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree Close at the corn-field edge.
There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn, Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. Oft-times when all the village lights are out And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes His lodging in the wilderness of woods,
And lifts his anthem when the world is still : And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews To the red roses and the herbs, doth find No eye save thine a watcher in her halls.
I hear thee oft at midnight, when the Thrush And the green, roving Linnet are at rest,
And the blithe, twittering Swallows have long ceased Their noisy note, and folded up their wings.
Far up some brook's still course, whose current
The forest's blackened roots, and whose green marge Is seldom visited by human foot,
The lonely Heron sits, and harshly breaks
The Sabbath silence of the wilderness :
And you may find her by some reedy pool, Or brooding gloomily on some time-stained rock, Beside some misty and far-reaching lake.
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