42 THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP. A whooping crane erects his skeleton form, And shrieks in flight. Two summer ducks, aroused To apprehension as they hear his cry, Dash up from the lagoon with marvellous haste, Following his guidance. Meetly taught by these, And startled at our rapid, near approach, The steel-jaw'd monster, from his grassy bed, You behold him now, His ridgy back uprising as he speeds In silence to the centre of the stream, SPRING. BY NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. THE Spring is here, the delicate-footed May, Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours: We pass out from the city's feverish hum, Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods: Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, And the light whisper as their edges meet: Strange, that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone. There's no contentment in a world like this, We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream; Bird-like, the prison'd soul will lift its eye, And pine till it is hooded from the sky. THE PAST. BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT. THOU unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. Far in thy realm withdrawn Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, manhood, age, that draws us to the ground, And last, man's life on earth, Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. Thou hast my better years, Thou hast my earlier friends—the good-the kind, Yielded to thee with tears— The venerable form-the exalted mind. My spirit yearns to bring The lost one back: yearns with desire intense, The bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. All passage save to those who hence depart; Thou giv❜st them back, nor to the broken heart. Beauty and excellence unknown: to thee Earth's wonder and her pride Are gather'd, as the waters to the sea: THE PAST. Labours of good to man, Unpublish'd charity, unbroken faith: Love that midst grief began, And grew with years, and falter'd not in death. Full many a mighty name Thine for a space are they : Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! Has All that of good and fair gone into thy womb from earliest time, The glory and the beauty of its prime. They have not perish'd-no! Kind words, remember'd voices once so sweet, And features, the great soul's apparent seat, All shall come back; each tie Of pure perfection shall be knit again; And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. And then shall I behold Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, Fills the next grave-the beautiful and young. 45 THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY. BY RUFUS DAWES. THE Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light, At morn, I know where she rested at night, At noon she hies to a cool retreat, Where bowering elms over waters meet; At eve she hangs o'er the western sky She hovers around us at twilight hour, When her presence is felt with the deepest power; |