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Thou that givest back so many a buried thing,
What wakest thou in the heart?
Too much, oh! there too much! We know not well Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee, What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep
Gush for the faces we no more may see !
By voices that are gone!
Looks of familiar love, that never more,
Why, why revivest thou these?
Vain longings for the dead !-why come they back With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms? Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track
Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ?
Breathed by our loved ones there!
The hawthorn whitens, and the juicy groves
drops From the bent bush as though the verdant maze,
A WALK BY THE WATER.
LET us walk where reeds are growing,
By the alders in the mead;
In whose waves the fishes feed.
There the golden carp is laving,
With the trout, the perch, and bream;
As they glance along the stream.
Now they sink in deeper billows,
Now upon the surface rise;
Dart to catch the water flies.
JOY OF SPRING.
Midst the reeds and pebbles hiding,
See the minnow and the roach ;
Shun with fear our near approach.
Do not dread us, timid fishes,
We have neither net nor hook ;
Are to read in Nature's book.)
JOY OF SPRING.
For lo! no sooner has the cold withdrawn, Than the bright elm is tufted on the lawn; The merry sap has run up in the bowers, And burst the windows of the buds in flowers; With song the bosoms of the birds run o'er, The cuckoo calls, the swallow's at the door, And (apple-trees at noon, with bees alive, Burn with the golden chorus of the hive.) Now all these sweets, these sounds, this vernal blaze Is but one joy, expressed a thousand ways:
And honey from the flowers, and song from birds, Are from the poet's pen his overflowing words.
THE NIGHTINGALE AT EVE.
All is still, A balmy night! and though the stars be dim, Yet let us think upon the vernal showers That gladden the green earth, and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. And hark! the Nightingale begins its song, “ Most musical, most melancholy” bird ! A melancholy bird! Oh! idle thought ! In Nature there is nothing melancholy.
'Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburden his full soul Of all its music!