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A LAKE and a fairy boat
To sail in the moonlight clear,—
And merrily we would float
From the dragons that watch us here !
Thy gown should be snow-white silk ;
And strings of orient pearls,
Like gossamers dipped in milk,
Should twine with thy raven cuils !
Red rubies should deck thy hands,
And diamonds should be thy dower —
But fairies have broke their wands,
And wishing has lost its power !

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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 ?

Love 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 ?

Friends 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 ?

HYMN TO THE SUN. 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 song

Lord 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 fane,
No more thou listenest to hymns sublime ;

But they will leave

On winds at eve
A solemn echo to the end of time.

TO A COLD BEAUTY. LADY, 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 ?

Let 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!


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

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripened ; — such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like 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.



— METHOUGHT I saw Life swiftly treading over endless space; And, at her foot-print, but a bygone pace, The ocean-past, which, with increasing wave, Swallowed her steps like a pursuing grave. Sad were my thoughts that anchored silently On the dead waters of that passionless sea, Unstirred by any touch of living breath : Silence hung over it, and drowsy Death, Like a gorged sea-bird, slept with folded wings On crowded carcasses — sad passive things That wore the thin gray surface like a veil Over the calmness of their features pale. And there were spring-faced cherubs that did sleep Like water-lilies on that motionless deep, How beautiful! with bright unruffled hair On sleek unfretted brows, and eyes that were Buried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse ! And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips, Meekly apart, as if the soul intense Spake out in dreams of its own innocence: And so they lay in loveliness, and kept The birth-night of their peace, that Life even wept With very envy of their happy fronts ; For there were neighbor brows scarred by the brunts Of strife and sorrowing — where Care had set His crooked autograph, and marred the jet Of glossy locks, with hollow eyes forlorn, And lips that curled in bitterness and scorn

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