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Her clear, warm heaven at noon—
-the mist that shrouds Her twilight hills-her cool and starry eves, The glorious splendour of her sunset clouds,
The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds,
Where'er his web of song her poet weaves ; And his mind's brightest vision but displays The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days.
And when you dream of woman, and her love;
Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power;
The mother smiling in her infant's bower ;
Be by some spirit of your dreaming hour
ON THE DEATH OF
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE,
OF NEW YORK, SEPT., 1820.
“ The good die first,
GREEN be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
Nor named thee but to praise.
Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
ON. THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.
When hearts, whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
To tell the world their worth ;
And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Whose weal and woe were thine:
It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow,
And feel I cannot now.
While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
That mourns a man like thee.
THE FIRST OF MARCH.
The bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud,
The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the flower,
How awful is the thought of the wonders underground,
The summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinion'd day
Thou hast fann’d the sleeping Earth till her dreams are all of Howers,
Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave,
The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills,
Down the dimpled green-sward dancing
Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy,
Love's irregular little levy:
Rows of liquid eyes in laughter,
How they glimmer, how they quiver !
Like bright ripples on a river.
Tipsy band of rubious faces,
Flushed with joy's ethereal spirit,
CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS.
ONCE on a time, when sunny May
Was kissing up the April showers, I saw fair Childhood hard at play
Upon a bank of blushing flowers; Happy,—he knew not whence or how;
And smiling,—who could choose but love him? For not more glad than CHILDHOOD's brow,
Was the blue heaven that beamed above him.
Old Time, in most appalling wrath,
That valley's green repose invaded; The brooks grew dry upon his path,
The birds were mute, the lilies faded ; But Time so swiftly winged his flight,
In haste a Grecian tomb to batter, That CHILDHOOD watched his paper kite,
And knew just nothing of the matter.
With curling lip, and glancing eye,
Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute, But ChilDHOOD's glance of purity
Had such a holy spell within it,
Spread forth again his baffled pinion,