Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods "OH FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS." OH fairest of the rural maids! Thy birth was in the forest shades; Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, The twilight of the trees and rocks Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene The forest depths, by foot unpressed, Of those calm solitudes, is there. '1 BROKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG." I BROKE the spell that held me long, I said, the poet's idle lore Shall waste my prime of years no more, I broke the spell-nor deemed its power Ah, thoughtless! how could I forget Its causes were around me yet? Still came and lingered on my sight Of flowers and streams the bloom and light, And glory of the stars and sun;— And these and poetry are one. They, ere the world had held me long, Recalled me to the love of song. JUNE. I GAZED upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June, When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break. A cell within the frozen mould, While fierce the tempests beat Away! I will not think of these- And be the damp mould gently pressed Into my narrow place of rest. There through the long, long summer hours, The golden light should lie, And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale close beside my cell; The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard And what if cheerful shouts at noon Come, from the village sent, |