And I should love to issue with the wind

On a strong errand, and o'ersweep the earth
With its broad continents and islands green,

Like to the passing of a spirit on!—
And this, 'tis true, were only idleness!

THE BURIAL OF ARNOLD.

YE'VE gathered to your place of prayer
With slow and meausured tread:

Your ranks are full, your mates all there—
But the soul of one has fled.

He was the proudest in his strength,

The manliest of ye all;

Why lies he at that fearful length,

And ye around his pall?

Ye reckon it in days, since he

Strode up that foot-worn aisle,

With his dark eye flashing gloriously,

And his lip wreathed with a smile.
O, had it been but told you, then,

To mark whose lamp was dim,
From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men,
Would ye have singled him?

Whose was the sinewy arm, that flung

Defiance to the ring?

Whose laugh of victory loudest rung—

Yet not for glorying?

Whose heart, in generous deed and thought,

No rivalry might brook,

And yet distinction claiming not?
There lies he-go and look!

On now his requiem is done,
The last deep prayer is said-
On to his burial, comrades-on,

With the noblest of the dead!
Slow-for it presses heavily-
It is a man ye bear!

Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily
On the noble sleeper there.

Tread lightly, comrades!-we have laid

His dark locks on his brow

Like life-save deeper light and shade:
We'll not disturb them now.
Tread lightly-for 'tis beautiful,

That bluc-veined eye-lid's sleep,
Hiding the eye death left so dull—
Its slumber we will keep.

Rest now!-his journeying is done-
Your feet are on his sod-

Death's chain is on your champion-
He waiteth here his God

Ay-turn and weep-'tis manliness

To be heart-broken here

For the grave of earth's best nobleness Is watered by the tear.

SPRING.

"L'onda del mar divisa

Bagna la valle e l'monte,

Va passegiera

In fiume,

Va prigionera

In fonte,

Mormora sempre e geme

Fin che non torna al mar."

METASTASIO.

THE Spring is here-the delicate-footed May, With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers And with it comes a thirst to be away,

Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hoursA feeling that is like a sense of wings, Restless to soar above these perishing things.