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SPRING it is cheery, Winter is dreary, Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly; When he's forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?

Tove will not clip him,
- Maids will not lip him,
Maud and Marian pass him by ;
Youth it is sunny,
Age has no honey, -
What can an old man do but die #

June it was jolly,
O for its folly!
A dancing leg and a laughing eye;
Youth may be silly,
Wisdom is chilly, -
What can an old man do but die?

Eriends they are scanty,
Beggars are plenty,
If he has followers, I know why;
Gold's in his clutches,
(Buying him crutches () —
What can an old man do but die?


GIVER of glowing light !
Though but a god of other days,
The kings and sages
Of wiser ages
Still live and gladden in thy genial rays.

King of the tuneful lyre, Still poets' hymns to thee belong; Though lips are cold Whereon of old Thy beams all turned to worshipping and songs

Flord of the dreadful bow,
None triumph now for Python's death;
But thou dost save
From hungry grave
The life that hangs upon a summer breath.

Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise; But waking flowers At morning hours Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.

God of the Delphic fame,
No more thou listenest to hymns sublime;
But they will leave
On winds at eve
A solemn echo to the end of time.


"THE autumn skies are flushed with gold, And fair and bright the rivers run; These are but streams of winter cold, And painted mists that quench the sun.

In secret boughs no sweet birds sing,
in secret boughs no bird can shroud;
These are but leaves that take to wing,
And wintry winds that pipe so loud.

"Tis not trees' shade, but cloudy glooms
That on the cheerless valleys fall;
The flowers are in their grassy tombs,
And tears of dew are on them all.


HADY, wouldst thou heiress be
To Winter's cold and cruel part?
When he sets the rivers free, .
Thou dost still lock up thy heart;-
Thou that shouldst outlast the snow
But in the whiteness of thy brow?

Scorn and cold neglect are made
For winter gloom and winter wind,
But thou wilt wrong the summer air,
Breathing it to words unkind,-
Breath which only should belong
To love, to sunlight, and to song!

When the little buds unclose,
Red, and white, and pied, and blue,
And that virgin flower, the rose,
Opes her heart to hold the dew,
Wilt thou lock thy bosom up
With no jewel in its cup 2

Tet not cold December sit
Thus in Love's peculiar throne; —-
Brooklets are not prisoned now,
But crystal frosts are all agone,
And that which hangs upon the spray,
It is no snow, but flower of May 1


SHE stood breast-high amid the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Tike the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
T)eeply ripened; — such a blush.
In the midst of brown was born,
Tike red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell;
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim; —
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks:--

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown, and come,
Share my harvest and my home.


SHE's up and gone, the graceless girl!
And robbed my failing years; -
My blood before was thin and cold,
But now 'tis turned to tears; —
My shadow falls upon my grave;
So near the brink I stand,
She might have staid a little yet,
And led me by the hands

Ay, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill,—
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,
And plover's answer shrill;
My child is flown on wilder wings
Than they have ever spread,
And I may even walk a waste
That widened when she fled.

Full many a thankless child has been,
But never one like mine;
Her meat was served on plates of gold,
Her drink was rosy wine;
But now she'll share the robin's food,
And sup the common rill,
Before her feet will turn again
To meet her father's will !

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