And bid the tiny wavelets dream

Of insect joys and coming bliss.

By desert rock and lonely glade

Where but the sun or stars look down,
Where foot of man hath seldom strayed,
Ye still do plat earth's vernal crown.

Shine stars! as dropped from upper sky;
Look eyes of blue! from vale and mead;
Leading our wand'ring thoughts on high,
An unsealed book that all may read.

WEEDS.

We call them weeds, the while with slender fingers Earth's wounds and scars they seek to cover o'er ; On sterile sands where scarce the rain-drop lingers They grow and blossom by the briny shore.

We call them weeds; did we their forms but study
We many a secret might enfolded find;
Each tiny plant fulfils its heaven-taught mission,
And bears the impress of immortal mind.

We call them weeds, the while their uses hidden
Might work a nation's weal, a nation's woe,—
Send through each wasted form the balm of healing,
And cause the blood with youth's quick pulse to flow.

Weeds yet they hold in bounds the mighty ocean! Their slender threads bind firm the sandy shore. Navies may sink amid its wild commotion,

These humble toilers ne'er their work give o'er.

And who shall say the feeblest thought avails not
To bind the shifting sands upon Life's beach?
Some heart may treasure what we've long forgot-
The faintest word some soul with power may reach.

PRIMROSE.

What is there in the morning air

That bids thy petals to unroll?
Thy fragrance rise as 'twere a prayer,
Or the escaping of thy soul,
Primrose?

Do unseen fingers gently turn

The spotless tablets of thy leaves

That we the more of heaven may learn?
And patience come to one who grieves―
Primrose?

And when at eve the passing day
Bestows on man her parting smile,
Dost ope, the Twilight's feet to stay,
With sunset hues her steps beguile,
Primrose?

O Flowers of Morning! Flowers of Eve!
Ye greet us but a little while;

We gaze on you as they who grieve

The vanished look, the hidden smile,—
Primrose.

LINES.

[On the chromo by L. Prang, representing volumes of Shakespeare with pansies lying upon the cover.]

"Pansies-that's for thought."

Sweet flowers that lie on the Poet's book,
Gathered from gardens and sunny nooks,
Tell of the thoughts that breathe beneath-
The mirth, the joy and the welling grief:
O Pansies, sweet!

Tell us bright flowers, of the Poet's love,
Of sweet Anne Hathaway, like a dove
Nestling within the Poet's heart,

Whose love in these lines have found a part:
O Pansies, tell!

Go tell the poor of the Master Mind!
Like them unnoticed, among mankind;
Once poor, unthought of and unknown—
Whom now the world doth honor and own:
O Pansies, tell!

And tell us, too, of the hands that wrought
These blossoms almost with fragrance fraught,
Giving the poor such gifts as these,
The heart to ennoble, the eye to please:
O Pansies fair!

THE SLEEPING EARTH.

The earth is sleeping-send ye trees
Your brown, dry leaves upon her bed,
And bid the ever busy breeze

With lightest hands adjust the spread.

Silence ye brooks-awake her not,

But let her rest, and softly dream

Of Spring's bright days with perfume fraught, Of sunshine gilding lake and stream.

Upon her breast th' arbutus lies,

Nor fears the winds anear or far,

"Till Spring looks there with loving eyes And wakes to life each pink-hued star.

Like sweet thoughts garnered in the soul
To cheer and bless the wintry hours,
When storms of grief around may roll,

So bide their time these fair May flowers.

Oh! blest are they who gather up

Youth's freshness for that coming time,

When pain and sorrow fill the cup—

When flowers bloom not, nor brooklets chime.

WAVES OFF NAHANT.

Over Earth's rocky sides, storm-seared and seamed, Do leap the frolic waves; as if she dreamed,

And through her dream did rush these laughing elves To fill with merriment her rocky shelves.

O white-capped sprites! that skip and dance and roar, Running from far to kiss the mother shore;

O white-faced elves! that leap and dance and play 'Neath the blue sky like one grand holiday.

But when old Ocean rouses in his might,

Ye, like scared children, in your wild affright

Rush o'er each cave, high rocks, and reach the land And throw your shells and playthings on the sand.

O joyous waves! soft singing night and day,
Lit by the sun's gold beams or moon's pale ray;
O restless waves! like thoughts that will not sleep
That rise and fall within the Mem'ry's deep.

O free-born waves ! that skirt each rocky beach
Then glide far out away from human reach ;
Waves since Creation by no chain confined,
Free-born and restless as the immortal mind.