She pushes upward the sward already,
To spot with sunshine the early green.

No lays so joyous as these are warbled
From wiry prison in maiden's bower;

No pampered bloom of the green-house chamber
Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower.

Yet these sweet sounds of the early season,
And these fair sights of its sunny days,
Are only sweet when we fondly listen,
And only fair when we fondly gaze.

There is no glory in star or blossom

Till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes

Till breathed with joy as they wander by.

Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows,
The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks,
And hollows, green in the sun, are waiting
Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks.

A SONG FOR NEW-YEAR'S EVE.

STAY yet, my friends, a moment stay-
Stay till the good old year,

So long companion of our way,

Shakes hands, and leaves us here.

Oh stay, oh stay,

One little hour, and then away.

The year, whose hopes were high and strong, Has now no hopes to wake;

Yet one hour more of jest and song

For his familiar sake.

Oh stay, oh stay,

One mirthful hour, and then away

The kindly year, his liberal hands
Have lavished all his store.

And shall we turn from where he stands,
Because he gives no more?

Oh stay, oh stay,

One grateful hour, and then away.

Days brightly came and calmly went,
While yet he was our guest;
How cheerfully the week was spent!
How sweet the seventh day's rest!
Oh stay, oh stay,

One golden hour, and then away.

Dear friends were with us, some who sleep Beneath the coffin-lid:

What pleasant memories we keep

Of all they said and did!

Oh stay, oh stay,

One tender hour, and then away.

Even while we sing, he smiles his last,

And leaves our sphere behind.

The good old year is with the past;

Oh be the new as kind!

Oh stay, oh stay,

One parting strain, and then away.

THE WIND AND STREAM.

A BROOK came stealing from the ground; You scarcely saw its silvery gleam Among the herbs that hung around

The borders of that winding stream, The pretty stream, the placid stream, The softly-gliding, bashful stream.

A breeze came wandering from the sky,
Light as the whispers of a dream;
He put the o'erhanging grasses by,

And softly stooped to kiss the stream,
The pretty stream, the flattered stream,
The shy, yet unreluctant stream.

The water, as the wind passed o'er,
Shot upward many a glancing beam,
Dimpled and quivered more and more,
And tripped along, a livelier stream,
The flattered stream, the simpering stream,
The fond, delighted, silly stream.

Away the airy wanderer flew

To where the fields with blossoms teem, To sparkling springs and rivers blue, And left alone that little stream,

The flattered stream, the cheated stream, The sad, forsaken, lonely stream.

That careless wind came never back;

He wanders yet the fields, I deem,

But, on its melancholy track,

Complaining went that little stream,
The cheated stream, the hopeless stream,
The ever-murmuring, mourning stream.

THE LOST BIRD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF CAROLINA CORONADO DE PERRY.

My bird has flown away,

Far out of sight has flown, I know not where.
Look in your lawn, I pray,

Ye maidens, kind and fair,

And see if my beloved bird be there.

His eyes are full of light;
The eagle of the rock has such an eye;
And plumes, exceeding bright,
Round his smooth temples lie,

And sweet his voice and tender as a sigh.

Look where the grass is gay

With summer blossoms, haply there he cowers;
And search, from spray to spray,

The leafy laurel-bowers,

For well he loves the laurels and the flowers.

Find him, but do not dwell,

With eyes too fond, on the fair form you see,
Nor love his song too well;

Send him, at once, to me,

Or leave him to the air and liberty.

For only from my hand

He takes the seed into his golden beak,
And all unwiped shall stand

The tears that wet my cheek,

Till I have found the wanderer I seek.

My sight is darkened o'er,
Whene'er I miss his eyes, which are my day,
And when I hear no more

The music of his lay,

My heart in utter sadness faints away.

THE NIGHT JOURNEY OF A RIVER.

OH River, gentle River! gliding on
In silence underneath this starless sky!
Thine is a ministry that never rests

Even while the living slumber. For a time
The meddler, man, hath left the elements

In peace; the ploughman breaks the clods no more;
The miner labors not, with steel and fire,

To rend the rock, and he that hews the stone,
And he that fells the forest, he that guides

The loaded wain, and the poor animal
That drags it, have forgotten, for a time,
Their toils, and share the quiet of the earth.
Thou pausest not in thine allotted task,
Oh darkling River! Through the night I hear
Thy wavelets rippling on the pebbly beach;
I hear thy current stir the rustling sedge,
That skirts thy bed; thou intermittest not