There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;
The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den,

And the wilding bee hums merrily by.

The clouds are at play in the azure space,

And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,

There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles;
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

WILLIAM TELL.

CHAINS may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee,
TELL, of the iron heart! they could not tame!
For thou wert of the mountains; they proclaim
The everlasting creed of liberty.

That creed is written on the untrampled snow,

Thundered by torrents which no power can hold,
Save that of God, when he sends forth his cold,
And breathed by winds that through the free heaven blow.
Thou, while thy prison walls were dark around,

Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught,
And to thy brief captivity was brought

A vision of thy Switzerland unbound.

The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee
For the great work to set thy country free.

AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY.

ALL day, from shrubs by our summer dwelling,
The Easter-sparrow repeats his song,

A merry warbler, he chides the blossoms,
The idle blossoms, that sleep so long.

The blue-bird chants, from the elm's long branches,
A hymn to welcome the budding year;
The south-wind wanders from field to forest,
And softly whispers, The spring is here!

Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city,
Before these lays from the elm have ceased;
The violet breathes by our door as sweetly
As in the air of her native East.

Though many a flower in the wood is waking,
The daffodil is our door-side queen;

She pushes upward the sward already,
To spot with sunshine the early green.

No lays so joyous as these are warbled
From wiry prison in maiden's bower;
No pampered bloom of the green-house chamber
Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower.

Yet these sweet lays of the early season
And these fair sights of its sunny days,

Are only sweet when we fondly listen,
And only fair when we fondly gaze.

There is no glory in star or blossom
Till looked upon by a loving eye;
There is no fragrance in April breezes

Till breathed with joy as they wander by.

Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows,
The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks,
And hollows green in the sun are waiting
Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks.

I SAT me down upon a green bank-side,

Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river,

Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide,

Like parting friends who linger while they sever; Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready,

Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy.

Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow
Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes,
Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow,

Or the fine frostwork which young winter freezes,
When first his power in infant pastime trying,
Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying.

From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling,
And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green,
Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling,
The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen

Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded,

Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes unheeded.

The humbird shook his sun-touched wings around,

The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat;

The antic squirrel capered on the ground

Where lichens made a carpet for his feet:

Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle

Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle.

There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses,
White powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flaunting
Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses,

Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting

A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden

Shining beneath dropt lids the evening of her wedding.

The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn,
Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em,

The winding of the merry locust's horn,

The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom: Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, Oh! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling.