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fERE'S the garden she walked across,

Arm in my arm, such a short while since:
Hark! now I push its wicket, the moss

Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince.
She must have reached the shrub ere she turned.
As back with that murmur the wicket swung;
For she laid the poor snail my chauce foot spurned,
To feed and forget it the leaves among.

Down this side of the gravel-walk

She went while her robe's edge brushed the box; And here she paused in her gracious talk

To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row,

I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know;

But yonder see where the rock-plants llel

This flower she stopped at, finger on Up,—

Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Till she gave me. with pride to make no slip,

Its soft meandering Spanish name. What a name! was it love or praise?

Speech half asleep, or song half awake? I must learn Spanish one of these days,

Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

Roses, if I live and do well,

I may bring her one of these days, To fix you fast with as flue a spell,—

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase. But do not detain me now, for she lingers

There, like a sunshine over the ground; And ever I see her soft white fingers

Searching after the bud she found.

Flower, you Spaniard! look that you grow not,—

Stay as you are, and be loved forever! Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not,—

Mind! the shut pink mouth opens never! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle,

Twinkhng the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn, and down they nestle:

Is not the dear mark still to be seen?

Where I find her not, beauties vanish;

Whither I follow her, beauties flee.
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish

June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud! show me the least of her traces;

Treasure my lady's lightest footfall:
Ah! you may flout and turn up your faces,— .

Roses, you are not so fair, after all!




PREVG, with that nameless pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair,
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court with green festoons
The banks of dark lagoons.

In the deep heart of every forest tree
The blood is all aglee,

And there's a look about the leafless bowers,
As if they dreamed of flowers.

Yet still on every side we trace the hand
Of winter in the land,

Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the season's dawn;

Or where, like those strange semblances we find
That age to childhood bind,
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn,
The brown of autumn corn.

As yet the turf is dark, although you know
That, not a span below,


A thousand germs are groping through the gloom.
And soon will burst their tomb.

In gardens you may note amid the dearth
The crocus breaking earth;

And near the snow-drop's tender white and green.
The violet in its screen.

But many gleams and shadows needs must pass
Along the budding grass,
And weeks go by, before the enamored South
Shall kiss the rose's mouth.

Still there's sense of blossoms yet unborn
In the sweet airs of morn;
One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by,
And brings, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate

Some wondrous pageant; and yon scarce would start,
If from a beech's heart

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say,
"Behold me! I am May!"
* * *

Iienry Timrod.


1 here the gentle lark, weary of rest, The sun ariseth in his majesty;

From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, Who doth the world so gloriously behold,

And wakes the morning, from whose silver That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.

breast William Shakespeare.

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EAR, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing cf- Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake i Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring, f This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction; once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.

It is the hush of night, and all between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen,
Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear
Precipitously steep; and drawing near,

There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more: *****

The sky is changed! — and such a change! O night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along. From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud. Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

Lord Byron.


CARE not. Fortune, what you me deny:
You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky.
Through which Aurora shows her brightening

You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve;
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave;
Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereavw.

James Thomson.

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