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THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
THE LAND OF DREAMS.
A MIGHTY realm is the Land of Dreams,
With steeps that hang in the twilight sky, And weltering oceans and trailing streams,
That gleam where the dusky valleys lie.
But over its shadowy border flow
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,
From eyes that open on earth no moreOne warning word from a voice once dear
How they rise in the memory o'er and o’er!
Far off from those hills that shine with day,
And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales, The Land of Dreams goes stretching away
To dimmer mountains and darker vales.
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
Were never stained with village smoke: The fragrant wind, that through them flies,
Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. Here, with my rifle and my steed,
And her who left the world for me,
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.
The bison is my noble game;
The branches, falls before my aim.
Mine are the river-fowl that scream
From the long stripe of waving sedge; The bear that marks my weapon's gleam,
Hides vainly in the forest's edge ; In vain the she-wolf stands at bay ;
The brinded catamount, that lies High in the boughs to watch his prey,
Even in the act of springing, dies.
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 scept the wind
Where never scythe has swept the glades.
Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere
The heavy herbage of the ground, Gathers his annual harvest here,
With roaring like the battle's sound, And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,
And smoke-streams gushing up the sky: I meet the flames with flames again, And at my door they cower and die.