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While Contemplation, on seraphic wings,
SPRING is abroad! the cuckoo's note
Yet nothing of the mighty sea
Nothing of lands where she has been,
No traveller she, whose vaunting boast
But of home and its pleasant memories.
Spring is abroad! a thousand more
Which yesterday a farewell sound
I know not where
it matters not;
To-day their thoughts are bent,
To pitch, in some sequester'd spot,
Hid from the glance of urchins' eyes,
The clustering leaves, a closer screen.
In bank, in bush, in hollow hole
On heath, and mountain hoar,
In grassy tuft, in ivy'd tower,
Where'er directs the instinctive power,
Beautiful things! than I, no boy
Sparkling beneath the forest fern,
I would not bear them from the nest,
With joy, the boughs where they abide.
The mysteries of life's early day
Like it, they glitter'd and they flew,
But not a charm of yours has faded,
Now jewels cold, and now pervaded
And kindle into life, and bear
Methinks, even as I gaze, there springs
And wandering thought has onward flown
To lands, to summer lands afar,
Led by a blissful charm:
Like toys in beauty here they lay
They are gone o'er the sounding ocean's spray; They are gone to bowers and skies more fair, And have left us to our march of care.
THE FIRST GRIEF.
brother back to me;
I cannot play alone;
The summer comes with flower and bee-
The butterfly is glancing bright
The flowers run wild, the flowers we sow'd
Our vine is drooping with its load—
"He would not hear my voice, fair child!
The face that once like spring-time smil'd,
A rose's brief bright life of joy,
And has he left the birds and flowers,
And must I call in vain ?
And thro' the long, long summer hours,
And by the brook, and in the glade,
Oh! while my brother with me play'd,
Would I had lov'd him more !
THE ILLUMINATED CITY.
THE hills all glow'd with a festive light,
There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree-
Was trac'd, as in stars, on the clear dark sky.
I pass'd through the streets; there were throngs on
Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs;
Didst thou not meet a mourner for all the slain?
I saw not the face of a weeper there
Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamp's glare !
Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car;
Turn then away from life's pageants! turn,
But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view