« PreviousContinue »
Oft, in the sunless April day,
Thy early smile has stayed my walk, But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,
I passed thee on thy humble stalk.
So they, who climb to wealth, forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them—but I regret
That I should ape the ways of pride.
And when again the genial hour
Awakes the painted tribes of light, I'll not o'erlook the modest flower
That made the woods of April bright.
There is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine; Race after race their honors yield,
They flourish and decline.
But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run, Inwreathes, the circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charm, Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arm.
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast
the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER.
The rain is o'er. How dense and bright
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie !
Contrasting with the dark blue sky!
In grateful silence, earth receives
The general blessing: fresh and fair,
As glad the common joy to share.
The softened sunbeams pour around
A fairy light, uncertain, pale;
Is breathing odors on the gale.
The sun breaks forth: from off the scene
Its floating veil of mist is flung;
With trembling drops of light is hung.
THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET.
The poetry of earth is never dead;
In summer luxury,—he has never done
LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN.
My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
THE BISON TRACK.
Strike the tent! the sun has risen; not a vapor streaks the
dawn, And the frosted prairie brightens to the westward, far and
Prime afresh the trusty rifle,-sharpen well the hunting
spearFor the frozen sod is trembling, and a noise of hoofs I
Fiercely stamp the tethered horses, as they snuff the
morning's fire; Their impatient heads are tossing, and they neigh with
keen desire. Strike the tent! the saddles wait us,-let the bridle-reins
be slack, For the prairie's distant thunder has betrayed the bison's
See a dusky line approaches: hark, the onward surging
roar, Like the din of wintry breakers on a sounding wall of
shore ! Dust and sand behind them whirling, snort the foremost
of the van, And their stubborn horns are clashing through the
Now the storm is down upon us: let the maddened horses We shall ride the living whirlwind, though a hundred
leagues it blow ! Though the cloudy manes should thicken, and the red
eyes angry glare Lighten round us as we gallop through the sand and
rushing air !
Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in our wild, resistless
race, And a sound, like mighty waters, thunder down the desert
Yet the rein may not be tightened, nor the rider's eye
look backDeath to him whose speed should slacken, on the mad
dened bison's track !
Now the trampling herds are threaded, and the chase is
close and warm For the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the
storm: Swiftly hurl the whizzing lasso,-swing your rifles as we
run; See! the dust is red behind him,-shout my comrades, he
is won !
Look not on him as he staggers,—'tis the last shot he will
need ! More shall fall, among his fellows, ere we run the mad
stampede, Ere we stem the brinded breakers, while the wolves, a
hungry pack, Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody
Bison Track !
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold, And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,