The golden nurslings of the May In splendor strew the spangled green, Mark how the rippled currents flow; Who told us that the years had fled, Or borne afar our blissful youth? Such joys are all about us spread, We know the whisper was not truth. The birds that break from grass and grove O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life! O Earth's betrothal, sweet and true, With whose delights our souls are rife, And aye their vernal vows renew! Then, darling, walk with me this morn; Let your brown tresses drink its sheen; These violets, within them worn, Of floral fays shall make you queen. What though there comes a time of pain When autumn winds forbode decay? And never seemed the land so fair EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. THE STORY OF A SUMMER DAY. O PERFECT Light, which shaid away Thy glory, when the day forth flies, The shadow of the earth anon Removes and drawis by, Which soon perceive the little larks, Our hemisphere is polished clean, And lightened more and more; While everything is clearly seen, Which seeméd dim before; Except the glistering astres bright, Which all the night were clear, Offusked with a greater light No longer do appear. The golden globe incontinent For joy the birds with boulden throats In woods and gardens green. The dew upon the tender crops, Refreshes all the ground. The misty reek, the clouds of rain From tops of mountains skails, Clear are the highest hills and plain, The vapors take the vales. or kiss of woman? ы Lay him low, by him low, In the clover on the Snow ! Lay his low! Ge. H. Boke POEMS OF PEACE AND WAR. ODE TO PEACE. Of discord-breathing men? Polluting God's pure day; Shriek Murder and Dismay. Oft have I wept to hear the cry For children fallen beneath the spear; The sense of human guilt and woe, For much I long to see, WILLIAM TENNENT. HYMN OF PEACE. ANGEL of Peace, thou hast wandered too long! Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love! Come while our voices are blended in song, Speed o'er the far-sounding billows of song, Crowned with thine olive-leaf garland of love; Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too long! Brothers, we meet on this altar of thine, Mingling the gifts we have gathered for thee, Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine, Breeze of the prairie and breath of the sea! Meadow and mountain, and forest and sea! Sweet is the fragrance of myrtle and pine, Sweeter the incense we offer to thee, Brothers, once more round this altar of thine! Angels of Bethlehem, answer the strain! Hark! a new birth-song is filling the sky! Loud as the storm-wind that tumbles the main, Bid the full breath of the organ reply; Let the loud tempest of voices reply; Roll its long surge like the earth-shaking main! Swell the vast song till it mounts to the sky! Angels of Bethlehem, echo the strain ! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. THE BATTLE-FIELD. ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and arméd hands Encountered in the battle-cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave, Now all is calm and fresh and still; And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine, are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; |