Had not put forth to warm them in the sun,
Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice,
Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone,
And prophesying life to the sealed ground,

Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties.
And now they're all around us;-offspring bright
Of earth,-a mother, who, with constant care,
Doth feed and clothe them all.-Now o'er her fields,
In blessed bands, or single, they are gone,

Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream;
Or peering o'er it-vanity well feigned—
In quaint approval seem to glow and nod
At their reflected graces.-Morn to meet,
They in fantastic labors pass the night,

Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops
To deck their bosoms.-There on tall, bald trees,
From varnished cells some pee, and the old boughs
Make to rejoice and dance in the unseen winds.
Over my head the winds and they make music;
And, grateful, in return for what they take,
Bright hues and odors to the air they give.

Thus mutual love brings mutual delight-
Brings beauty, life;-for love is life;-hate, death.

Thou prophet of so fair a revelation,Thou who abod'st with us the winter long, Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft,

From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow,

Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days

Shone on the earth, midst thaw and steam, cam❜st forth From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell,

To speak of comfort unto lonely man,

Didst say to him, though seemingly alone
'Midst wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees,
Or the more silent ground,—that 'twas not death,
But nature's sleep and rest, her kind repair;-
That thou, albeit unseen, did'st bear with him
The winter's night, and, patient of the day,
And cheered by hope, (instinct divine in thee,)
Waitedst return of summer.

More thou saidst,

Thou priest of nature, priest of God, to man!
Thou spok'st of faith, (than instinct no less sure,)

Of spirits near him, though he saw them not;
Thou bad'st him ope his intellectual eye,

And see his solitude all populous:

Thou showd'st him Paradise, and deathless flowers; And didst him pray to listen to the flow

Of living waters.

Preacher to man's spirit!

Emblem of Hope! Companion! Comforter!
Thou faithful one! is this thine end? 'Twas thou,
When summer birds were gone, and no form seen
In the void air, who can'st, living and strong,

On thy broad, balanced pennons, through the winds.
And of thy long enduring, this the close!

Thy kingly strength brought down, of storms
Thou conqueror!

The year's mild, cheering dawn
Upon thee shone a momentary light.
The gales of spring upbore thee for a day,
And then forsook thee. Thou art fallen now;
And liest amongst thy hopes and promises-
Beautiful flowers, and freshly-springing blades-
Gasping thy life out.-Here for thee the grass
Tenderly makes a bed; and the young buds
In silence open their fair, painted folds-
To ease thy pain, the one-to cheer thee, these.
But thou art restless; and thy once keen eye
Is dull and sightless now. New blooming boughs,
Needlessly kind, have spread a tent for thee.
Thy mate is calling to the white, piled clouds,
And asks for thee. No answer give they back.
As I look up to their bright, angel faces,
Intelligent and capable of voice

They seem to me. Their silence to my soul

Comes ominous. The same to thee, doomed bird,

Silence or sound. For thee there is no sound,

No silence. Near thee stands the shadow, Death ;-
And now he slowly draws his sable veil

Over thine eyes. Thy senses soft he lulls
Into unconscious slumbers. The airy call

Thou'lt hear no longer. 'Neath sun-lighted clouds,
With beating wing, or steady poise aslant,
Thou'lt sail no more. Around thy trembling claws

Droop thy wings' parting feathers. Spasms of death
Are on thee.

Laid thus low by age ? Or is't
All-grudging man has brought thee to this end?
Perhaps the slender hair, so subtly wound
Around the grain God gives thee for thy food,
Has proved thy snare, and makes thine inward pain.

I needs must mourn for thee. For I-who have
No fields, nor gather into garners-I

Bear thee both thanks and love, not fear nor hate.

And now, farewell! The falling leaves, ere long,
Will give thee decent covering. Till then,
Thine own black plumage, which will now no more
Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes,

Like armor of steeled knight of Palestine,
Must be thy pall. Nor will it moult so soon
As sorrowing thoughts on those borne from him fade
In living man.

Who scoffs these sympathies
Makes mock of the divinity within;

Nor feels he, gently breathing through his soul,
The universal spirit.-Hear it cry,

"How does thy pride abase thee, man, vain man!

How deaden thee to universal love,

And joy of kindred, with all humble things-
God's creatures all !"

And surely it is so.

He who the lily clothes in simple glory,

He who doth hear the ravens cry for food,
Hath on our hearts, with hand invisible,

In signs mysterious, written what alone

Our hearts may read.-Death bring thee rest, poor bird

After a Tempest.—BRYANT.

THE day had been a day of wind and storm,—
The wind was laid, the storm was overpassed,

And, stooping from the zenith, bright and warm,
Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last.
I stood upon the upland slope, and cast
My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene,

Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast,
And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green,

With pleasant vales scooped out, and villages between.

The rain-drops glistened on the trees around,

Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred, Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground, Was shaken by the flight of startled bird;

For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung

And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward;

To the gray oak, the squirrel, chiding, clung,

And, chirping, from the ground the grasshopper upsprung.

And from beneath the leaves, that kept them dry,
Flew many a glittering insect here and there,

And darted up and down the butterfly,

That seemed a living blossom of the air.

The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where The violent rain had pent them; in the way

Strolled groups of damsels frolicsome and fair;

The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay,
And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play.

It was a scene of peace-and, like a spell,

Did that serene and golden sunlight fall

Upon the motionless wood that clothed the cell,
And precipice upspringing like a wall,

And glassy river, and white waterfall,

And happy living things that trod the bright

And beauteous scene; while, far beyond them all,

On many a lovely valley, out of sight,

Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft, golden light.

I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene
An emblem of the peace that yet shall be,
When o'er earth's continents, and isles between,
The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea,
And married nations dwell in harmony;
When millions, crouching in the dust to one,
No more shall beg their lives on bended knee,

Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun

The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done,

Too long at clash of arms amid her bowers,

And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last

The storm; and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past; Lo, the clouds roll away-they break-they fly, And, like the glorious light of summer, cast O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie.

A Winter Scene.-IDLE MAN.

BUT Winter has yet brighter scenes;-he boasts Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows, Or Autumn, with his many fruits and woods

All flushed with many hues. Come, when the rains
Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice.
When the slant sun of February pours

Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach!
The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,
And the broad, arching portals of the grove
Welcome thy entering. Look, the massy trunks
Are cased in the pure crystal; branch and twig
Shine in the lucid covering; each light rod,
Nodding and twinkling in the stirring breeze,
Is studded with its trembling water-drops,
Still streaming, as they move, with colored light.
But round the parent stem the long, low boughs
Bend in a glittering ring, and arbors hide
The glassy floor. O! you might deem the spot
The spacious cavern of some virgin mine,

Deep in the womb of Earth, where the gems grow,
And diamonds put forth radiant rods, and bud
With amethyst and topaz, and the place
Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam

That dwells in them; or, haply, the vast hall
Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night,
And fades not in the glory of the sun;

Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts
And crossing arches, and fantastic aisles