THE WIND- FLOWER.

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From glen to grove, each small bird's voice again Rings music on the breeze-now the pleas'd eye

Can watch the vernal flower through its short reign, Whether its virgin bud conceal'd may lie

'Mong wither'd leaves, or 'neath the budding thorn. Or dips its crimson cups in the pure stream,

Watering its new-born blossoms, while the morn
Smiles down the primrosed valley; every gleam
Of sunshine wakens up new flowers to blow,
So late enshrined in beds of virgin snow.

I watch'd the Wind-Flower, as she, leaf by leaf,
Unfolded to the breath of April's air;

Her pale and vermil petals, streak'd like grief
On the young face of beauty, when despair
Or premature decay has seiz'd upon

Her angel frame, and droop'd her in her prime.
The flower expanded as the sunbeams shone
Around the smiling glade. No fairer clime
Than this needs ere be sigh'd for, where the ground
Is studded o'er with Wind-Flower; fleeting blooms!

To-morrow ye are gone, and no more found,

Till spring again the wood and lawn perfumes.
Fair emblem of my Laura's hectic bloom,
Loved and adored, then entered in the tomb.

WRITTEN AT SEA.

It is pleasant to gaze on the deep blue sky,
When the fair moonbeams on the waters lie,
And the night breeze swells our sail;
When all is sea, the eye can explore,
As the bark steers for my native shore,
With a light and steady gale.

How lovely then on the calm green sea,
To mark the fish on our starboard and lea,
In countless shoals around,
Like a molten lake of paler gold

All sparkling bright, whose bars infold

Our bark as on fairy ground.

As our prow glides through, we wondering gaze
On the far spread phosphorescent blaze,

While from each curling wave,
Bright bars of gold spring up, then glide
In liquid fire down the living tide,
The glancing brine to lave.

We near❜d the shore, when the dawning morn Illumin'd the waves, and the spell was gone;

But never from this breast

Shall a sight so glorious and sublime,

Ere be effaced, in whatever clime

My pilgrim'd footsteps rest.

THE COLD SPRING.

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WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF THE COLD SPRING, 1827.

As yet the trembling year is unconfirm❜d,

And winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightless.-THOMSON.

'Tis April! yet the snow-storm hovers round,

To blight and scare thee in thy growth-sweet flower, The flakes fall fast around thee, while the ground Crisps to my tread-all yield to winter's power

But thee, and the young snow-drop; left at will
To bloom or perish in the wilds ye love,
By the hoar-drooping hawthorn 'neath the hill,
First in pale Flora's train by yonder grove.

What poet with a scene so drear, forlorn,

Would mantle spring, in smiling robes of green!

For see her shivering in the chills of morn,

Where panzied tufts, and primrose beds have been

And should be blooming now, where snow-clad bowers Shrine April in the wilderness around,

Of fair and spotless purity, where flowers

Shrink from the clear cold air within the ground,

And nestle their young buds in the wither'd leaves,
Strewn by Pomona when she fled these dells:
Yet see, braving the blast, whose bosom heaves,
Fronting the storm, whose embryo beauty swells,

And bursts its cerement; alternate spread
Thy yellow petals smiling to the morn,
Bright gaudy golden cup! the lark o'erhead
Will greet thee, soon as soft winds lax the storm.

Bloom on, sweet flowers; you're shelter'd in the grove, While all around the devious woodland shore,

Where Kelvin murmurs onward as I rove,

Is shingled with the rime-frost spreading hoar.

As muffled in my cloak I climb the hill,

And lean upon yon rock-the vale below, Where winter lords, around sleeps peaceful still, 'Mong leafless underwoods, and wreaths of snow.

How bleak

appears the wide extending plain,

To where yon dark pines throw their gloom around: No speck of green gladdens the dreary scene,

No wild bird warbles forth a joyous sound.

The cold east wind blows bleak o'er hill and lawn,
Blighting the opening bud, while in his train,
Disease, with flurrying pace, from eve till dawn,
Stalks ghastly o'er the pestilence-tainted plain.

Your rigours cannot last;—the rudest gush,
Of passion rankling in the human breast,
Lords but its day, then settles down to blush,

At its own futile weakness,-though oppress'd

TO THALIARCHUS.

And sear'd in April's bosom, soon will May

Relieve her elder sister, now forlorn,

Rain her warm tears, and thaw the frosts away

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From her wan flowerless forehead. May! thy morn

Is usher'd in by all, with odorous breaths,

Cradled in April's lap-so poets sing,

Who strew thy path in smiles, and flowery wreaths:
For once, distrust the tidings which they bring.

HORACE, LIB. I. ODE IX.-TO THALIARCHUS.

Vides, ut alta, stet nive candidum

Soracte.

BLEAK Soracte meets my sight,
Clothed in a robe of virgin white;
The olives in the vale below,
Groan beneath a load of snow,

While bound in strongest bands of frost,
The currents of the streams are lost,

One solid sheet of ice spreads o'er,
Fair Tyber's banks from shore to shore.

Dispel the cold, the friendly blaze,
To warm and cheer your poet, raise;
With wood the blazing ingle crown,
Till every object shine around.

T