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THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 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
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
THE LAND OF DREAMS.
A MIGHTY realm is the Land of Dreams,
But over its shadowy border flow
Sweet rays from the world of endless morn, And the nearer mountains catch the glow, And flowers in the nearer fields are born.
The souls of the happy dead repair,
From their bowers of light, to that bordering land, And walk in the fainter glory there,
With the souls of the living hand in hand.
One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere,
Far off from those hills that shine with day,
There lie the chambers of guilty delight,
There walk the spectres of guilty fear, And soft low voices, that float through the night, Are whispering sin in the helpless ear.
Dear maid, in thy girlhood's opening flower,
Scarce weaned from the love of childish play! The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower That freshens the early blooms of May!
Thine eyes are closed, and over thy brow
Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams, And I know, by thy moving lips, that now Thy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams.
Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet!
O keep where that beam of Paradise falls, And only wander where thou may'st meet The blessed ones from its shining walls.
So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams, With love and peace to this world of strife; And the light that over that border streams Shall lie on the path of thy daily life.
Ay, this is freedom!-these pure skies
And her who left the world for me,
I plant me where the red deer feed
In the green desert-and am free.
For here the fair savannas know
No barriers in the bloomy grass; Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. In pastures, measureless as air,
The bison is my noble game;
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear
Mine are the river-fowl that scream
With what free growth the elm and plane Fling their huge arms across my way, Gray, old, and cumbered with a train
Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! Free stray the lucid streams, and find
No taint in these fresh lawns and shades; Free spring the flowers that scent the wind Where never scythe has swept the glades.
Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere
With roaring like the battle's sound,