TO A LADY

WITH A WITHERED VIOLET.

THOUGH fate upon this faded flower
His withering hand has laid,
Its odour'd breath defies his power,
Its sweets are undecayed.

And thus, although thy warbled strains

No longer wildly thrill,

The memory of the song remains,

Its soul is with me still.

BRONX.

I SAT me down upon a green bank-side,
Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river,
Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide,

Like parting friends who linger while they sever; Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready,

Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy.

Grey o'er my head the yellow-vested willow
Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes,
Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow,

Or the fine frost-work which young winter freezes; When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches

lying.

From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling,
And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green,
Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling,
The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen

Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded,
Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes
unheeded.

The hum-bird shook his sun-touched wings around,
The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat;

The antic squirrel capered on the ground
Where lichens made a carpet for his feet :

Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle
Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twin-

kle.

There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses, White powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flaunt

ing

Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses,
Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting
A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden
Shining beneath dropt lids the evening of her wed-

ding.

The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, The winding of the merry locust's horn,

The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bo

som:

Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling,

Oh! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling.

And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand
Again in the dull world of earthly blindness?
Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands,
Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness?
Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude,
To prison wandering thought and marsweet solitude?

Yet I will look upon thy face again,

My own romantic Bronx, and it will be A face more pleasant than the face of men. Thy waves are old companions, I shall see A well-remembered form in each old tree, And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.

SONG.

"Tis not the beam of her bright blue eye,
Nor the smile of her lip of rosy dye,

Nor the dark brown wreaths of her glossy hair,
Nor her changing cheek so rich and rare.
Oh! these are the sweets of a fairy dream,
The changing hues of an April sky;
They fade like dew in the morning beam
On the passing zephyr's adored sigh.

'Tis a dearer spell that bids me kneel,
'Tis the heart to love, and the soul to feel:
'Tis the mind of light, and the spirit free,
And the bosom that heaves alone for me.
Oh! these are the sweets that kindly stay
From youth's gay morning to age's night;
When beauty's rainbow tints decay,
Love's torch still burns with a holy light.