When the changed winds are soft and warm, Then sing aloud the gushing rills And the full springs, from frost set free, The year's departing beauty hides Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, April.-LONGFELLOW. WHEN the warm sun, that brings I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming-in of storms. From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives: The softly-warbled song Comes through the pleasant woods, and colored wings Are glancing in the golden sun, along The forest openings. And when bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And when the day is gone, In the blue lake, the sky, o'erreaching far, Inverted in the tide Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, And the fair trees look over, side by side, And see themselves below. Sweet April, many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; I FEEL a newer life in every gale; The winds, that fan the flowers, And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, Tell of serener hours, Of hours that glide unfelt away Beneath the sky of May. The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls From his blue throne of air, And where his whispering voice in music falls, Beauty is budding there; The bright ones of the valley break The waving verdure rolls along the plain, And the wide forest weaves, To welcome back its playful mates again, And from its darkening shadow floats Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May; With the light dallying of the west-wind play; As gladly to their goal they run, Mounds on the Western Rivers.-M. FLINT. THE sun's last rays were fading from the west, The deepening shade stole slowly o'er the plain, The evening breeze had lulled itself to rest, And all was silence,-save the mournful strain With which the widowed turtle wooed, in vain, Her absent lover to her lonely nest. Now, one by one, emerging to the sight, The brighter stars assumed their seats on high; I lingered, by some soft enchantment bound, I saw the plain, outspread in living green; I saw the lesser mounds which round me rose; Ye mouldering relics of departed years, Your names have perished; not a trace remains, Save where the grass-grown mound its summit rears From the green bosom of your native plains. Say, do your spirits wear Oblivion's chains? Did Death forever quench your hopes and fears? Or did those fairy hopes of future bliss, In whose bright climes the virtuous and the brave Rest from their toils, and all their cares dismiss ?— Where the great hunter stills pursues the chase, Or, it may be, that still ye linger near The sleeping ashes, once your dearest pride; If so, forgive the rude, unhallowed feet Which trod so thoughtless o'er your mighty dead. Nor trample where the sleeping warrior's head Age after age, still sunk in slumbers sweet. Farewell! and may you still in peace repose; Casting their fragrance on each lonely tomb, In which your tribes sleep in earth's common womb, And mingle with the clay from which they rose. Burial of the Minnisink.-Longfellow. ON sunny slope and beechen swell Far upward, in the mellow light, In the warm blush of evening shone- By which the Indian soul awakes. But soon a funeral hymn was heard, They sung, that by his native bowers A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Before, a dark-haired virgin train Stripped of his proud and martial dress, They buried the dark chief; they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; |