But he will sip it first—before the lees.

'Tis his to taste rich honey,―ere the bees
Are busy with the brooms. He may forestall
June's rosy advent for his coronal;

Before th' expectant buds upon the bough,
Twining his thoughts to bloom upon his brow.
Oh! blest to see the flower in its seed,

Before its leafy presence; for indeed

Leaves are but wings, on which the summer flies,
And each thing perishable fades and dies,

Escap'd in thought; but his rich thinkings be
Like overflows of immortality.

So that what there is steep'd shall perish never,

But live and bloom, and be a joy for ever.

SONG.

O LADY, leave thy silken thread

And flowery tapestrie :

There's living roses on the bush,

And blossoms on the tree;

Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet ;

Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find

The daisy at thy feet.

'Tis like the birthday of the world,

When earth was born in bloom;

The light is made of many dyes,

The air is all perfume;

There's crimson buds, and white and blue

The very rainbow showers

Have turn'd to blossoms where they fell,

And sown the earth with flowers.

There's fairy tulips in the east,
The garden of the sun;

The very streams reflect the hues,

And blossom as they run:

While Morn opes like a crimson rose,

Still wet with pearly showers;

Then, lady, leave the silken thread

Thou twinest into flowers!

TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY.

I HEARD a gentle maiden, in the spring,
Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing:
"Fly through the world, and I will follow thee,
Only for looks that may turn back on me ;

Only for roses that your chance may throw—
Though wither'd-I will wear them on my brow,
To be a thoughtful fragrance to my brain;
Warm'd with such love, that they will bloom again.

Thy love before thee, I must tread behind,
Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind;
But trust not all her fondness, though it seem,
Lest thy true love should rest on a false dream.

Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet;

But smiles betray, and music sings deceit ;

And words speak false;-yet, if they welcome prove,

I'll be their echo, and repeat their love.

Only if waken'd to sad truth, at last,

The bitterness to come, and sweetness past;
When thou art vext, then, turn again, and see

Thou hast lov'd Hope, but Memory lov'd thee."