Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine? Elfin court 'twould seem; And taught perchance that dream Which the old Greek mountain dreamt upon nights divine. To expound such wonder Human speech avails not; Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not. Think of all these treasures, Every one a marvel, more than thought can say; We thicken fields and bowers, And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May: Think of the mossy forests By the bee-birds haunted, And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as enchanted! Trees themselves are ours; Fruits are born of flowers; Peach and roughest nut were blossoms in the spring; The lusty bee knows well The news, and comes pell-mell, And dances in the bloomy thicks with darksome antheming. Beneath the very burthen Of planet-pressing ocean We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, a thought for meek devotion. Tears of Phoebus,-missings Have in us been found, and wise men find them still; Drooping grace unfurls Still Hyacinthus' curls, And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill; Still is wet with morning; And the step that bled for thee, the rosy briar adorning. Who shall say that flowers Dress not heav'n's own bowers? Who its love, without them, can fancy,-or sweet floor? Who shall even dare To say we sprang not there, And came not down that Love might bring one piece of heav'n the more? Oh pray believe that angels Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their golden pinions. LEIGH HUNT. AN END. LOVE, strong as death, is dead. A Come, let us make his bed Among the dying flowers; green turf at his head, And a stone at his feet, Whereon we may sit In the quiet evening hours. He was born in the spring, On the last warm summer day To few chords, and sad, and low, Be our eyes fix'd on the grass, In the long ago. CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. W TO A WATER-FOWL. HITHER, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way! Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, On the chafed ocean side? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,― All day thy wings have fann'd, And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy shelter'd nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He, who from zone to zone Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. W. C. BRYANT. VENUS OF THE NEEDLE. MARYANNE, you pretty girl, Of sempstresses the pink and pearl, Those eyes for ever drooping, give Hast thou not lent that flounce enough Ye graceful fingers, deftly sped! How blest the youth whom love shall bring, And happy stars embolden, To change the dome into a ring, The silver into golden! Who'll steal some morning to her side To take her finger's measure, While Maryanne pretends to chide, And blushes deep with pleasure. Who'll watch her sew her wedding-gown, Who'll taste those ripenings of the south, The fragrant and deliciousDon't put the pins into your mouth, O Maryanne, my precious! I almost wish it were my trust To teach how shocking that is; |