And lightly o'er the living scene Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. New-born flocks, in rustic dance, The birds his presence greet: And, lessening from the dazzled sight, Melts into air and liquid light. Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Mute was the music of the air, The herd stood drooping by: Their raptures now that wildly flow, No yesterday nor morrow know; "T is man alone that joy descries, With forward, and reverted eyes. Smiles on past misfortune's brow Soft reflection's hand can trace; And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw A melancholy grace; While hope prolongs our happier hour, Still, where rosy pleasure leads, The hues of bliss more brightly glow, See the wretch that long has tost Humble quiet builds her cell, Near the source whence pleasure flows; She eyes the clear crystalline well, And tastes it as it goes. Hope Deferred. I. "T Is long since we were forced to part, at least it seems so to my grief, For sorrow wearies us like time, but ah! it brings not time's relief; And whispering in the panting breeze, her love-songs come at lonely night; While far away with those less dear, she tries to hide her grief in vain, For, kind to all while true to me, it pains her to give pain. IL I know she never spoke her love, she never breathed a single vow, And yet I'm sure she loved me then, and still doats on me now; For, when we met, her eyes grew glad, and heavy when I left her side, And oft she said she 'd be most happy as a poor man's bride, I toiled to win a pleasant home, and make it ready by the spring; The spring is past-what season now my girl unto our home will bring? I'm sick and weary, very weary—watching, morning, night, and noon; How long you 're coming-I am dying-will you not come soon? THOMAS DAVIS. Sonnet cxbi. LET me not to the marriage of true minds Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. SHAKSPEARE. Rural Sounds. NOR rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilarate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds, To soothe and satisfy the human ear. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The live-long night: nor these alone, whose notes Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain, But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still repeated circles, screaming loud, |