Come while their balms the linden-blos- | What pictures yet slumber unborn in soms shed! Come while the rose is red, While blue-eyed Summer smiles On the green ripples round yon sunken piles his loom, Till their warriors shall breathe and their beauties shall bloom, While the tapestry lengthens the lifeglowing dyes Washed by the moon-wave warm from That caught from our sunsets the stain Indian isles, And on the sultry air of their skies! The chestnuts spread their palms like In the alcoves of death, in the charnels Like shrivelled leaves, youth's passion- There are heroes yet silent to speak with "Bud, little roses! Spring is here!" I have my doubts. No matter, — here The windows blush with fresh bouquets, Cut with the May-dew on their lips; The radish all its bloom displays, Pink as Aurora's finger-tips. Nor less the flood of light that showers On beauty's changed corolla-shades,— The walks are gay as bridal bowers With rows of many-petalled maids. The scarlet shell-fish click and clash In the blue barrow where they slide; The horseman, proud of streak and splash, Creeps homeward from his morning ride. Here comes the dealer's awkward string, With neck in rope and tail in knot, Rough colts, with careless country-swing, In lazy walk or slouching trot. Wild filly from the mountain-side, Doomed to the close and chafing thills, Lend me thy long, untiring stride To seek with thee thy western hills! I hear the whispering voice of Spring, The thrush's trill, the robin's cry, Like some poor bird with prisoned wing That sits and sings, but longs to fly. O for one spot of living green, One little spot where leaves can grow, To love unblamed, to walk unseen, To dream above, to sleep below! Each rogue, repentant, melts his stern рара; Misers relent, the spendthrift's debts are paid, The cheats are taken in the traps they laid; One after one the troubles all are past Till the fifth act comes right side up at last, When the young couple, old folks, rogues, and all, Join hands, so happy at the curtain's fall. Here suffering virtue ever finds relief, And black-browed ruffians always come to grief. When the lorn damsel, with a frantic screech, And cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach, Cries, "Help, kyind Heaven!" and drops upon her knees Clasps the young scrapegrace with pater- One day a prisoner Justice had to kill nal joy, Sobs on his neck, "My boy! MY BOY!! MY BOY!!!" Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill. Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy-browed, Ours, then, sweet friends, the real world Rudolph the headsman rose above the Bounced down the steps; oner said no more! Woman! thy falchion is a glittering eye; All earthly powers confess your sov- If death lurk in it, O how sweet to die! |