Now the maiden rose is blushing At the frolic things we say, Through the blooming groves we rustle, Scarcely knowing how it was. Down the glen, across the mountain, Thy glory, when the day forth flies, The shadow of the earth anon Removes and drawis by, Which soon perceive the little larks, And time their songs, like Nature's clerks, Our hemisphere is polished clean, Except, the glistening astres bright, The golden globe incontinent For joy the birds with boulden throats Take up their kindly music notes The dew upon the tender crops, Like pearles white and round, Or like to melted silver drops, Refreshes all the ground. I T The Rainy Day. HE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, Be still, sad heart! and cease repining Thy fate is the common fate of all, The Cloud. BRING fresh showers for the thirsty flowers, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, I sift the snow on the mountains below, And all the night 'tis my pillow white, In a cavern under is fettered the thunder; Over the earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain and stream, The Spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine surprise, with his meteor eyes, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle, alit, one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when the sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardors of rest and love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall, From the depths of heaven above, That orbed maiden with white fire laden, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin ro, Like a swarm of golden bees, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be, The triumphal arch, through which I march, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Emeralds on the lowlands where the river flows: In the pastures sweet and green, kine and sheep repose, Glorious Autumn! well of thee poets sang of old, Gathering round thee luscious fruits, wealth of grain untold, Decking thee in regal robes of purple and of gold. We have limners painted thee in thy yellow hair, Matron with thy sun-bronzed brow, thy majestic air, Thy rounded breast, thy broad full waist, thy strong arms brown and bare. But thou art lovelier by far than poet ever sung, Or painter with his gorgeous dyes upon the canvas hung, Most bountiful, most beautiful thy season-mates among. The murmuring streams, the rustling trees, the dulcet low of herds, The song of winds, the hum of bees, the melody of birds God's poets they, that chant thy praise in hymns more grand than words. The golden morns, the crimson eves, the cloud-sprent blue of skies, The green of meads, the yellow fields where the rich harvest lies God's limners they, that paint thy charms with more than artist dyes. Spring-tide is the year's gay youth-Summer is its prime; In FAITH we watch the growth of Spring-in HOPE, the summer time; But yellow Autumn, like God's LOVE showers gifts on every clime. -John Francis Waller. M Ode to the Harvest Moon. OON of harvest, herald mild Of plenty, rustic labor's child, As soft it trembles o'er the stream, Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, Moon of harvest, I do love In the blue vault of the sky, Where no thin vapor intercepts thy ray, But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way. Pleasing 'tis, O modest moon! While around the zephyrs sigh, Fanning soft the sun-tanned wheat, Ripened by the summer's heat; Picturing all the rustic's joy When boundless plenty greets his eye, And thinking soon, Oh, modest moon! How many a female eye will roam Along the road, To see the load, The last dear load of harvest home. May no winds careering high, Drive the clouds along the sky; But may all nature smile with aspect boon, harvest moon! |