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THE world is bright before thee,
Its summer flowers are thine,
Its calm blue sky is o'er thee,
Thy bosom Pleasure's shrine;

And thine the sunbeam given
To Nature's morning hour,
Pure, warm, as when from heaven
It burst on Eden's bower.

There is a song of sorrow,

The death-dirge of the gay, That tells, ere dawn of morrow, These charms may melt away, That sun's bright beam be shaded, That sky be blue no more, The summer flowers be faded,

And youth's warm promise o'er.

Believe it not-though lonely

Thy evening home may

be;

Though Beauty's bark can only

Float on a summer sea;

Though Time thy bloom is stealing, There's still beyond his art

The wild-flower wreath of feeling, The sunbeam of the heart.

THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS,

SARATOGA.

STRANGERS! your eyes are on that valley fixed
Intently, as we gaze on vacancy,

When the mind's wings o'erspread

The spirit-world of dreams.

True, 'tis a scene of loveliness-the bright

Green dwelling of the summer's first-born Hours,

Whose wakened leaf and bud

Are welcoming the morn.

And morn returns the welcome, sun and cloud

Smile on the green earth from their home in heaven,

Even as a mother smiles

Above her cradled boy,

And wreath their light and shade o'er plain and mountain,

O'er sleepless seas of grass whose waves are flowers, The rivers' golden shores,

The forests of dark pines.

The song of the wild bird is on the wind,
The hum of the wild bee, the music wild
Of waves upon the bank,

Of leaves upon the bough.

But all is song and beauty in the land,
Beneath her skies of June; then journey on,
A thousand scenes like this

Will greet you ere the eve.

Ye linger yet-ye see not, hear not now
The sunny smile, the music of to-day,
Your thoughts are wandering up
Far up the stream of time;

And boyhood's lore and fireside listened tales Are rushing on your memories, as ye breathe That valley's storied name,

FIELD OF THE GROUNDED arms.

Strangers no more, a kindred "pride of place,"

Pride in the gift of country and of name

Speaks in your eye and step

Ye tread your native land.

And your high thoughts are on her glory's day, The solemn sabbath of the week of battle,

Whose tempests bowed to earth

Her foeman's banner here.