And bid thy storms the snow-flakes toss
And deck with beauty every bower.

Then gently bend thee o'er the earth,
And bid her sleep, and bid her dream
Of times when buds and flowers have birth,
And softly sings the murmuring stream.

So in our chill and wintry hours

When wild storms bend us at their will, Recall we then life's early flowers,

And voices sweet, now hushed and still.

And gazing forth with yearnings fond
(The while grief's winds so sadly blow),
Know all our treasures safe, beyond,

While Faith's bright star illumes the snow.

SUMMER'S GOING.

Summer's going; I'm her lover;
How I watch to see her pass
All among the scented clover,
Where I lie amid the grass.

Buttercups are by so golden;

How they catch the summer sun ;

I forget that I am olden,

And again for them I run.

Daisies white are scattered round me
Like white sheep upon the hill,
Or like stars last night new fallen
When the air was calm and still.

While I lie amid the grasses,

Bird and bee and butterfly,

Every tiny sprite that passes,

Whispers Summer's sad good-bye.

THE RETURN OF SPRING.

A gentle step is on the withered leaves

Where wind-swept boughs and moistened mosses

lie;

At the soft tread the sleeping floweret breathes,
Raises itself to see who passes by,

Thrusting aside the matted vines that cling,

While small birds chirp and warble, "It is Spring!"

Adown the fields she passes; as she goes,
Over the tree's imploring arms so bare,
A soft green mantle how she kindly throws,
That shakes its scented tassels in the air.
No more like sleeted warriors clad in mail-

Their green plumes nod her glad approach to hail.

The grass thrusts up its fingers by the way,
To tell the city of her coming life;

While through the hills the small brooks laugh and play,

With merry music as of flute or fife,

Bidding the mosses, as they dance along,

New clothe themselves and listen to their song.

How many times, O gentle Spring, declare,

Hast thou awaked the sleeping earth from dreams? Placed fragrant flowers in her tangled hair,

And bathed her forehead from fresh rippling streams? And when our feet no more these paths shall tread, Still will thy songs be sung? thy bright blooms spread?

TO A PRIMROSE.

Primrose on the river's brim,
Scarcely moored upon the earth,
Golden as the Evening's hymn,
Emblem of our second birth ;—

Rising from thy darksome tomb,
Wrestling with the briny air
To perfect thy cup of bloom,

To shed fragrance everywhere;

Pelting storm and biting cold

Could not quench the buried life.

So our souls their birthright hold

'Mid earth's sorrow, sin and strife;

Wrestling with the waves of strife
Where Time's billows swiftly glide,
Still the spark of heavenly life

'Neath earth's dust and sin we hide.

Here its beauty may not show,

Here its perfume may not rise,
But earth's seeds in heaven shall blow
Op'ning sweet 'neath fairer skies.

A WOOD RAMBLE IN THE EARLY PART OF DECEMBER, 1870.

(INSCRIBED TO MY FRIEND REBECCA A. SILSBEE.)

Winter is here- yet Beauty is not dead

She looketh forth from every nook and hill Where brakes die golden on their rustling bed, And 'mid the dry leaves ripples on the rill.

The frost hath turned her cheeks a deeper red
Where crimson hips and berries clust'ring hang;
Her slender fingers drop the piny spread

From boughs where late the wild-bird hopped and sang.

Where are the early, blushing flowers of Spring
That seemed too fragile and too fair for earth?
That nestling to her bosom sought to cling,

The tender mother that had given them birth.

Like thoughts in youth, that came, that passed away,
Beneath the moss and leaves of fleeting years-
How Mem'ry brings their freshness back to-day,
And Life once more a holiday appears!

Through the soft, hazy air the sunbeams fall
Like pleasant thoughts, to cheer the fading earth.
A few red leaves still cluster on the wall,

The dying embers on the Old Year's hearth.

Take to thyself, O Earth! each plant and flower
And shield them safely from cold winter's breath.
Take us, too, kindly, in our closing hour,
When we, too, sleep the sleep men miscall death.

THE SPRINGS OF OLD.

They come again, those Springs of old,
Whose blooms were made for other eyes;
We pluck e'en now the blue and gold
Erst they did prize.

These warbling notes their ears have heard
In years gone by, oh ! long ago ;—
These gentle winds their locks have stirred
Of gold and snow.

O Blooms, immortal through the years!
How Mem'ry's scents commingling rise-