In the cup where the bee and the fire-fly feed,
Regaining thy dazzling brightness.

"I'll let thee awake from thy transient sleep,
When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep,

In a tremulous tear; or, a diamond, leap
In a drop from the unlock'd fountain;
Or, leaving the valley, the meadow, and heath,
The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath,
Go up and be wove in the silvery wreath
Encircling the brow of the mountain.

"Or, wouldst thou return to a home in the skies,
To shine in the Iris I'll let thee arise,
And appear in the many and glorious dyes
A pencil of sunbeams is blending!
But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth,
I'll give thee a new and vernal birth,
When thou shalt recover thy primal worth,
And never regret descending!"

"Then I will drop," said the trusting Flake;
"But, bear it in mind, that the choice I make
Is not in the flowers, nor the dew to wake;

Nor the mist, that shall pass with the morning. For, things of thyself, they will die with thee; But those that are lent from on high, like me, Must rise, and will live, from thy dust set free, To the regions above returning.

"And if true to thy word and just thou art,
Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart,
Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart,

And return to my native heaven.
For I would be placed in the beautiful bow,
From time to time, in thy sight to glow;
So thou mayst remember the Flake of Snow,
By the promise that God hath given!"

K

THE WATERFALL.

YE mighty waters, that have join'd your forces, Roaring and dashing with this awful sound, Here are ye mingled; but the distant sources Whence ye have issued, where shall they be found?

Who may retrace the ways that ye have taken, Ye streams and drops? who separate you all, And find the many places ye've forsaken,

To come and rush together down the fall?

Through thousand, thousand paths have ye been roaming,

In earth and air, who now each other urge To the last point! and then, so madly foaming, Leap down at once, from this stupendous

verge.

Some in the lowering cloud a while were center'd,
That in the stream beheld its sable face,
And melted into tears, that, falling, enter'd
With sister waters on this sudden race.

Others, to light that beam'd upon the fountain,
Have from the vitals of the rock been freed,
In silver threads, that, shining down the moun-
tain,

Twined off among the verdure of the mead.

And many a flower that bow'd beside the river, In opening beauty, ere the dew was dried, Stirr'd by the breeze, has been an early giver Of her pure offering to the rolling tide.

Thus, from the veins, through earth's dark bosom pouring,

Many have flowed in tributary streams; Some, in the bow that bent, the sun adoring, Have shone in colours borrow'd from his beams.

But He, who holds the ocean in the hollow Of his strong hand, can separate you all! His searching eye the secret way will follow Of every drop that hurries to the fall!

We are, like you, in mighty torrents mingled, And speeding downward to one common home; Yet there's an eye that every drop hath singled, And mark'd the winding ways through which

we come.

Those who have here adored the Sun of heaven, And shown the world their brightness drawn from him,

Again before him, though their hues be seven, Shall blend their beauty, never to grow dim.

We bless the promise, as we thus are tending Down to the tomb, that gives us hope to rise Before the Power to whom we now are bending,

To stand his bow of glory in the skies!

THE WINDS.

WE come! we come! and ye feel our might,
As we're hastening on in our boundless flight,
And over the mountains, and over the deep,
Our broad, invisible pinions sweep,

Like the spirit of Liberty, wild and free!
And ye look on our works, and own 't is we;
Ye call us the Winds; but can ye tell
Whither we go, or where we dwell?

Ye mark, as we vary our forms of power,
And fell the forests, or fan the flower,
When the hare-bell moves, and the rush is bent,
When the tower 's o'erthrown, and the oak is rent,
As we waft the bark o'er the slumbering wave,
Or hurry its crew to a watery grave;
And ye say it is we! but can ye trace
The wandering winds to their secret place?
And, whether our breath be loud or high,
Or come in a soft and balmy sigh,
Our threatenings fill the soul with fear,
Or our gentle whisperings woo the ear
With music aerial, still, 't is we.

And ye list, and ye look; but what do ye see?
Can ye hush one sound of our voice to peace,
Or waken one note, when our numbers cease?

Our dwelling is in the Almighty's hand;
We come and we go at his command.
Though joy or sorrow may mark our track,
His will is our guide, and we look not back:
And if, in our wrath, ye would turn us away,
Or win us in gentle airs to play,
Then lift up your hearts to him, who binds
Or frees, as he will, the obedient winds.

THE SCAR OF LEXINGTON. WITH cherub smile, the prattling boy, Who on the veteran's breast reclines, Has thrown aside his favourite toy,

And round his tender finger twines Those scatter'd locks, that, with the flight Of fourscore years, are snowy white; And, as a scar arrests his view,

He cries, "Grandpa, what wounded you?" "My child, 't is five-and-fifty years

This very day, this very hour,
Since, from a scene of blood and tears,
Where valour fell by hostile power,
I saw retire the setting sun
Behind the hills of Lexington;
While pale and lifeless on the plain
My brothers lay, for freedom slain!

"And ere that fight, the first that spoke In thunder to our land, was o'er, Amid the clouds of fire and smoke,

I felt my garments wet with gore!
"Tis since that dread and wild affray,
That trying, dark, eventful day,
From this calm April eve so far,
I wear upon my cheek the scar.

"When thou to manhood shalt be grown,
And I am gone in dust to sleep,
May freedom's rights be still thine own,
And thou and thine in quiet reap
The unblighted product of the toil,
In which my blood bedew'd the soil!
And, while those fruits thou shalt enjoy,
Bethink thee of this scar, my boy.

"But, should thy country's voice be heard
To bid her children fly to arms,
Gird on thy grandsire's trusty sword;
And, undismay'd by war's alarms,
Remember, on the battle-field,
I made the hand of Gon my shield:
And be thou spared, like me, to tell
What bore thee up, while others fell."

He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane, like a fairy, crept; Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepp'd,

By the light of the morn, were seen Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees; There were cities, with temples and towers; and these

All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair,-
He peep'd in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare,

"Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three;
And the glass of water they've left for me
Shall tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."

THE WINTER BURIAL.

THE deep-toned bell peals long and low,
On the keen, mid-winter air;
A sorrowing train moves sad and slow,
From the solemn place of prayer.

The earth is in a winding-sheet,

And nature wrapp'd in gloom,

Cold, cold the path which the mourners' feet Pursue to the waiting tomb.

They follow one, who calmly goes

From her own loved mansion-door,

Nor shrinks from the way through gather'd snows,
To return to her home no more.

A sable line, to the drift-crown'd hill,
The narrow pass they wind;
And here, where all is drear and chill,
Their friend they leave behind.

The silent grave they're bending o'er,
A long farewell to take;

One last, last look, and then, no more
Till the dead shall all awake!

THE FROST.

THE Frost look'd forth one still, clear night,
And whisper'd, "Now I shall be out of sight;
So, through the valley, and over the height,
In silence I'll take my way.

I will not go on like that blustering train-
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain;
But I'll be as busy as they."

Then he flew to the mountain, and powder'd its

crest;

He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dress'd

In diamond beads; and over the breast

Of the quivering lake he spread

A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear,
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.

THE ROBE.

"T WAS not the robe of state

Which the high and the haughty wear, That my busy hand, as the lamp burn'd late, Was hastening to prepare.

It had no clasp of gold, No diamond's dazzling blaze, For the festive board; nor the graceful fold To float in the dance's maze.

"T was not to wrap the breast With gladness light and warm; For the bride's attire-for the joyous guest, Nor to clothe the sufferer's form.

"T was not the garb of wo

We wear o'er an aching heart,
When our eyes with bitter tears o'erflow,
And our dearest ones depart.

"T was what we all must bear
To the cold, the lonely bed!
"T was the spotless uniform they wear
In the chambers of the dead!

I saw a fair, young maid
In the snowy vesture dress'd;
So pure, she look'd as one array'd
For the mansions of the bless'd.

A smile had left its trace
On her lip at the parting breath,
And the beauty in that lovely face
Was fix'd with the seal of death!

THE CONSIGNMENT.

FIRE, my hand is on the key,
And the cabinet must ope!
I shall now consign to thee
Things of grief, of joy, of hope.
Treasured secrets of the heart

To thy care I hence intrust:
Not a word must thou impart,

But reduce them all to dust.

This-in childhood's rosy morn,
This was gaily fill'd and sent.
Childhood is forever gone;

Here-devouring element.
This was friendship's cherish'd pledge;
Friendship took a colder form:
Creeping on its gilded edge,

May the blaze be bright and warm!

These the letter and the token,

Never more shall meet my view! When the faith has once been broken, Let the memory perish too! This 't was penn'd while purest joy Warm'd the heart, and lit the eye: Fate that peace did soon destroy,

And its transcript now will I!

This must go! for, on the seal

When I broke the solemn yew, Keener was the pang than steel;

"T was a heart-string breaking too! Here comes up the blotted leaf,

Blister'd o'er by many a tear. Hence! thou waking shade of grief! Go, forever disappear!

This is his, who seem'd to be

High as heaven, and fair as light: But the visor rose, and he

Spare, O memory, spare the sight
Of the face that frown'd beneath,

While I take it, hand and name,
And entwine it with a wreath
Of the purifying flame!

These-the hand is in the grave,

And the soul is in the skies,

Whence they came! "Tis pain to save
Cold remains of sunder'd ties!
Go together, all, and burn,

Once the treasures of my heart!
Still, my breast shall be an urn
To preserve your better part!

THE MIDNIGHT MAIL.

"T is midnight-all is peace profound! But, lo! upon the murmuring ground, The lonely, swelling, hurrying sound

Of distant wheels is heard!

They come-they pause a moment-when,
Their charge resign'd, they start, and then
Are gone, and all is hush'd again,
As not a leaf had stirr'd.

Hast thou a parent far away,
A beauteous child, to be thy stay
In life's decline-or sisters, they
Who shared thine infant glee?
A brother on a foreign shore?
Is he whose breast thy token bore,
Or are thy treasures wandering o'er
A wide, tumultuous sea?

If aught like these, then thou must feel The rattling of that reckless wheel, That brings the bright, or boding seal,

On every trembling thread

That strings thy heart, till morn appears,
To crown thy hopes, or end thy fears,
To light thy smile, or draw thy tears,
As line on line is read.

Perhaps thy treasure's in the deep,
Thy lover in a dreamless sleep,
Thy brother where thou canst not weep
Upon his distant grave!

Thy parent's hoary head no more
May shed a silver lustre o'er
His children group'd,-nor death restore
Thy son from out the wave!

Thy prattler's tongue, perhaps, is still'd,
Thy sister's lip is pale and chill'd,
Thy blooming bride, perchance, has fill'd
Her corner of the tomb.

May be, the home where all thy sweet
And tender recollections meet,
Has shown its flaming winding-sheet
In midnight's awful gloom!

And while, alternate, o'er my soul
Those cold or burning wheels will roll
Their chill or heat, beyond control,

Till morn shall bring relief,
Father in heaven, whate'er may be
The cup, which thou has sent for me,
I know 't is good, prepared by Thee,
Though fill'd with joy or grief!

THE SHIP IS READY.

FARE thee well! the ship is ready,
And the breeze is fresh and steady.
Hands are fast the anchor weighing;
High in air the streamer's playing.
Spread the sails-the waves are swelling
Proudly round thy buoyant dwelling.
Fare thee well! and when at sea,
Think of those who sigh for thee.

When from land and home receding,
And from hearts that ache to bleeding,
Think of those behind, who love thee,
While the sun is bright above thee!
Then, as, down to ocean glancing,
In the waves his rays are dancing,
Think how long the night will be
To the eyes that weep for thee.

When the lonely night-watch keeping,
All below thee still and sleeping,—
As the needle points the quarter
O'er the wide and trackless water,
Let thy vigils ever find thee
Mindful of the friends behind thee!
Let thy bosom's magnet be

Turn'd to those who wake for thee!

When, with slow and gentle motion,
Heaves the bosom of the ocean,-
While in peace thy bark is riding,
And the silver moon is gliding
O'er the sky with tranquil splendour,
Where the shining hosts attend her:
Let the brightest visions be
Country, home, and friends, to thee!

When the tempest hovers o'er thee,
Danger, wreck, and death before thee,
While the sword of fire is gleaming,
Wild the winds, the torrent streaming,
Then, a pious suppliant bending,

Let thy thoughts, to heaven ascending,
Reach the mercy-seat, to be
Met by prayers that rise for thee!

That the pride of the forest was folded up
In the narrow space of its little cup!
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,
Which proves that nothing could hide her worth!
And, O! how many will tread on me,

To come and admire the beautiful tree,
Whose head is towering towards the sky,
Above such a worthless thing as I!
Useless and vain, a cumberer here,
I have been idling from year to year.
But never, from this, shall a vaunting word
From the humbled Pebble again be heard,
Till something without me or within,
Shall show the purpose for which I've been!"
The Pebble its vow could not forget,
And it lies there wrapp'd in silence yet.

THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.

"I AM a Pebble! and yield to none!"
Were the swelling words of a tiny stone;-
"Nor time nor seasons can alter me;
I am abiding, while ages flee.

The pelting hail, and the drizzling rain,
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain ;
And the tender dew has sought to melt
Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.
There's none that can tell about my birth,
For I'm as old as the big, round earth.
The children of men arise, and pass
Out of the world, like the blades of grass;
And many a foot on me has trod,
That's gone from sight, and under the sod.
I am a Pebble! but who art thou,
Rattling along from the restless bough?"

The Acorn was shock'd at this rude salute,
And lay for a moment abash'd and mute;
She never before had been so near

This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere;
And she felt for a time at a loss to know
How to answer a thing so coarse and low.
But to give reproof of a nobler sort
Than the angry look, or the keen retort,
At length she said, in a gentle tone,
"Since it has happen'd that I am thrown
From the lighter element where I grew,
Down to another so hard and new,
And beside a personage so august,
Abased, I will cover my head with dust,
And quickly retire from the sight of one
Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun,
Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel
Has ever subdued, or made to feel!"
And soon in the earth she sunk away,
From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay..

But it was not long ere the soil was broke
By the peering head of an infant oak!
And, as it arose, and its branches spread,
The Pebble look'd up, and, wondering, said,
"A modest Acorn,-never to tell
What was enclosed in its simple shell!

THE MOON UPON THE SPIRE.

THE full-orb'd moon has reach'd no higher
Than yon old church's mossy spire,
And seems, as gliding up the air,
She saw the fane; and, pausing there,
Would worship, in the tranquil night,
The Prince of peace-the Source of light,
Where man for Gon prepared the place,
And God to man unveils his face.

Her tribute all around is seen;
She bends, and worships like a queen!
Her robe of light and beaming crown
In silence she is casting down;
And, as a creature of the earth,
She feels her lowliness of birth-
Her weakness and inconstancy
Before unchanging purity!

Pale traveller, on thy lonely way,
"Tis well thine homage thus to pay;
To reverence that ancient pile,
And spread thy silver o'er the aisle
Which many a pious foot has trod,
That now is dust beneath the sod;
Where many a sacred tear was wept
From eyes that long in death have slept!

The temple's builders--where are they?
The worshippers ?-all pass'd away,
Who came the first, to offer there
The song of praise, the heart of prayer!
Man's generation passes soon;

It wanes and changes like the moon.
He rears the perishable wall;
But, ere it crumbles, he must fall!

And does he sink to rise no more?
Has he no part to triumph o'er
The pallid king? no spark, to save
From darkness, ashes, and the grave?
Thou holy place, the answer, wrought
In thy firm structure, bars the thought!
The spirit that establish'd thee

Nor death nor darkness e'er shall see!