THE PARTING OF SUMMER.

THOU 'rt bearing hence thy roses,

Glad Summer, fare thee well! Thou 'rt singing thy last melodies In every wood and dell.

But ere the golden sunset

Of thy latest lingering day,

Oh! tell me, o'er this chequered earth,
How hast thou passed away?

Brightly, sweet Summer! brightly

Thine hours have floated by,

To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs, The rangers of the sky.

And brightly in the forests,

To the wild deer wandering free; And brightly, 'midst the garden flowers, Is the happy murmuring bee:

But how to human bosoms,

With all their hopes and fears,

And thoughts that make them eagle-wings,
To pierce the unborn years?

Sweet Summer! to the captive

Thou hast flown in burning dreams

Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves, And the blue rejoicing streams;

To the wasted and the weary

On the bed of sickness bound, In swift delirious fantasies,

That changed with every sound ;

To the sailor on the billows,

In longings, wild and vain, For the gushing founts and breezy hills, And the homes of earth again!

And unto me, glad Summer!

How hast thou flown to me?
My chainless footstep nought hath kept
From thy haunts of song and glee.

Thou hast flown in wayward visions,
In memories of the dead-
In shadows, from a troubled heart,
O'er thy sunny pathway shed:

In brief and sudden strivings,

To fling a weight aside'Midst these thy melodies have ceased, And all thy roses died.

But, oh! thou gentle Summer!

If I greet thy flowers once more, Bring me again the buoyancy

Wherewith my soul should soar!

Give me to hail thy sunshine,

With song and spirit free; Or in a purer air than this

May that next meeting be!

THE WORLD IN THE OPEN AIR. COME, while in freshness and dew it lies, To the world that is under the free, blue skies Leave ye man's home, and forget his careThere breathes no sigh on the dayspring's air.

Come to the woods, in whose mossy dells
A light all made for the poet dwells;
A light, coloured softly by tender leaves,
Whence the primrose a mellower glow receives.

The stock-dove is there in the beechen-tree,
And the lulling tone of the honey-bee;
And the voice of cool waters, 'midst feathery fern,
Shedding sweet sounds from some hidden urn.

There is life, there is youth, there is tameless mirth, Where the streams, with the lilies they wear, have birth;

There is peace where the alders are whispering low:
Come from man's dwellings, with all their wo!

Yes!-we will come-we will leave behind
The homes and the sorrows of human kind;
It is well to rove where the river leads
Its bright, blue vein along sunny meads:

It is well through the rich, wild woods to go,
And to pierce the haunts of the fawn and doe;
And to hear the gushing of gentle springs,
When the heart has been fretted by worldly stings:

And to watch the colours that flit and pass,
With insect wings through the wavy grass;
And the silvery gleams o'er the ash-trees bark,
Borne in with a breeze through the foliage dark.

Joyous and far shall our wanderings be,
As the flight of birds o'er the glittering sea;
To the woods, to the dingles where violets blow,
We will bear no memory of earthly wo.

But if, by the forest-brook, we meet
A line like the pathway of former feet;-
If, 'midst the hills, in some lonely spot,
We reach the gray ruins of tower or cot;-

If the cell, where a hermit of old hath prayed,
Lift up its cross through the solemn shade;-
Or if some nook, where the wild-flowers wave,
Bear token sad of a mortal grave,—

Doubt not but there will our steps be stayed,
There our quick spirits awhile delayed;
There will thought fix our impatient eyes,
And win back our hearts to their sympathies.

For what, though the mountains and skies be fair,
Steeped in soft hues of the summer-air,—
'Tis the soul of man, by its hopes and dreams,
That lights up all nature with living gleams.

Where it hath suffered and nobly striven,
Where it hath poured forth its vows to Heaven;
Where to repose it hath brightly past,
O'er this green earth there glory cast.

And by that soul, amidst groves and rills,
And flocks that feed on a thousand hills,
Birds of the forest, and flowers of the sod,
We, only we, may be linked to God!

KINDRED HEARTS.

Он! ask not, hope thou not too much

Of sympathy below;

Few are the hearts whence one same touch

Bids the sweet fountains flow:
Few-and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet-

Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye

Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky,
Where the rich sunset burns:
It may be that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring-
A dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times-
A sorrowful delight!

The melody of distant chimes,

The sound of waves by night;
The wind that, with so many a tone,
Some chord within can thrill,—
These may have language all thine own,
To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this, the true
And steadfast love of years;

The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one that o'er the dead

Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watched through sickness by thy bed,— Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made,

Wherein bright spirits blend,

Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,

With the same breeze that bend,
For that full bliss of thought allied,

Never to mortals given,—
Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto heaven.

THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.

'T WAS a lovely thought to mark the hours,
As they floated in light away,
By the opening and the folding flowers,
That laugh to the summer's day.

Thus had each moment its own rich hue,
And its graceful cup and bell,

In whose coloured vase might sleep the dew,
Like a pearl in an ocean-shell.

To such sweet signs might the time have flowed
In a golden current on,

Ere from the garden, man's first abode,
The glorious guests were gone.

So might the days have been brightly told-
Those days of song and dreams-
When shepherds gathered their flocks of old,
By the blue Arcadian streams.

So in those isles of delight, that rest
Far off in a breezeless main,
Which many a bark, with a weary quest,
Has sought, but still in vain.

"He told of far and sunny lands, which lie
Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell:
Bright must they be!-for there are none that die,
And none that weep, and none that say 'Farewell!'
He came to guide us thither;-but away
The Happy called him, and he might not stay.

"We saw him slowly fade,-athirst, perchance,
For the fresh waters of that lovely clime;
Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance,

And on his gleaming hair no touch of time,— Therefore we hoped:--but now the lake looks dim, For the green summer comes,--and finds not him!

"We gathered round him in the dewy hour

Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree; From his clear voice, at first, the words of power Came low, like moanings of a distant sea; But swelled and shook the wilderness ere long, As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong.

"And then once more they trembled on his tongue, And his white eyelids fluttered, and his head Fell back, and mists upon his forehead hung,

Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead? It is enough!-he sank upon my breastOur friend that loved us, he was gone to rest!

"We buried him where he was wont to pray, By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide; We reared this Cross in token where he lay,

For on the Cross, he said, his Lord had died! Now hath he surely reached, o'er mount and wave, That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave.

"But I am sad!-I mourn the clear light taken

Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, The pathway to the better shore forsaken,

And the true words forgotten, save by one, Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast."

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye:"Son of the wilderness' despair thou not, Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot! Heaven darkly works; yet where the seed hath been There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen.

"Hope on, hope ever!-by the sudden springing

Of green leaves which the winter hid so long;
And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing,
After cold silent months, the woods among;
And by the rending of the frozen chains,
Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains;

"Deem not the words of light that here were spoken,
But as a lovely song to leave no trace,
Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken,
And the full dayspring rise upon thy race!
And fading mists the better path disclose,
And the wide desert blossom as the rose."

My spirit greets you as ye stand,

Breasting the billow's foam:
Oh! thus for ever guard the land,

The severed Land of Home!

I have left rich blue skies behind,
Lighting up classic shrines,
And music in the southern wind,
And sunshine on the vines.

The breathings of the myrtle flowers,
Have floated o'er my way;
The pilgrim's voice, at vesper-hours,
Hath soothed me with its lay.

The Isles of Greece, the Hills of Spain,
The purple Heavens of Rome,—
Yes, all are glorious;-yet again,
I bless thee, Land of Home!
For thine the Sabbath peace, my land!
And thine the guarded hearth;
And thine the dead, the noble band,

That make thee holy earth.
Their voices meet me in thy breeze,
Their steps are on thy plains;
Their names, by old majestic trees,
Are whispered round thy fanes.

Their blood hath mingled with the tide

Of thine exulting sea:

Oh! be it still a joy, a pride,
To live and die for thee!

Thou hast flung the wealth away,
And the glory of thy spring;
And to thee the leaves' light play,
Is a long-forgotten thing.

But when wilt thou return?-
Sweet dews may freshen soon
The flower, within whose urn
Too fiercely gazed the noon.
O'er the image of the sky,

Which the lake's clear bosom wore, Darkly may shadows lie

But not for evermore.

Give back thy heart again,
To the freedom of the woods,
To the birds' triumphant strain,
To the mountain solitudes!
But when wilt thou return?
Along thine own pure air,
There are young sweet voices borne-
Oh! should not thine be there?

Still at thy father's board

There is kept a place for thee,
And, by thy smile restored,
Joy round the hearth shall be.
Still hath thy mother's eye,

Thy coming step to greet,
A look of days gone by,

Tender and gravely sweet.

Still, when the prayer is said,

For thee kind bosoms yearn, For thee fond tears are shedOh! when wilt thou return?

THE WAKENING.

How many thousands are wakening now!
Some to the songs from the forest-bough,
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice-pane,
To the chiming fall of the early rain.

And some far out on the deep mid-sea,
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee,
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side,
That holds through the tumult her path of pride.

And some-oh! well may their hearts rejoice-
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice!
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the hearth 't is gone.

And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath,
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath,
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,
Which tells that a field must ere night be won.