The lesson of Thy own eternity. Lo! all grow old and die-but see again, The freshness of her far beginning lies Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch-enemy Death-yea, seats himself Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From Thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men who hid themselves The generation born with them, nor seemed Around them ;-and there have been holy men Retire, and in Thy presence reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, The passions, at Thy plainer footsteps shrink And tremble and are still. O God! when Thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods THE YELLOW VIOLET. When beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue-bird's warble know, The yellow violet's modest bell Peeps from the last year's leaves below. Ere russet fields their green resume, Of all her train, the hands of Spring Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. Thy parent sun, who bade thee view Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. Oft, in the sunless April day, Thy early smile has stayed my walk; But 'midst the gorgeous blooms of May, I passed thee on thy humble stalk. So they, who climb to wealth, forget That I should ape the ways of pride. And when again the genial hour That made the woods of April bright. TO A WATERFOWL. Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean-side? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coastThe desert and illimitable air Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, MARCH. The stormy March is come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the snowy valley flies. Ah, passing few are they who speak, For thou, to northern lands, again The glad and glorious sun dost bring, |