And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; 20 When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no

more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, 25 The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.° In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: Yet not unmeet° it was that one, like that young friend of ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 30

THE GLADNESS OF NATURE

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,

When our mother Nature laughs around;
When even the deep blue heavens look glad,

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird° and wren,
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;
The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den,

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The clouds are at play in the azure space

And their shadows at play on the bright-green vale, 10 And here they stretch to the frolic chase,

And there they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,

There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, 15 And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles;
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN°

THOU blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven's own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.

Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and com'st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend°
The aged year is near his end.

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Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean° wall.

Blue- blue

I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN

OUR band is few but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold;

The British soldier trembles

When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us,

As seamen know the sea.

We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,

Its safe and silent islands

Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery

That little dread us near!

On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear:

When, waking to their tents on fire,

And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;

And they who fly in terror deem°
A mighty host behind,

And hear the tramp of thousands
Upon the hollow wind.

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Then sweet the hour that brings release 25 From danger and from toil :

We talk the battle over,

And share the battle's spoil.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout,
As if a hunt were up,°

And woodland flowers are gathered

To crown the soldier's cup.

With merry songs we mock the wind
That in the pine-top grieves,

And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads

The glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb°
Across the moonlight plain;
'Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts the tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp ·
A moment and away
Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.

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Grave men there are by broad Santee,°
Grave men with hoary hairs;
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton,
Forever, from our shore.

THE CROWDED STREET

LET me move slowly through the street,
Filled with an ever-shifting train,

Amid the sound of steps that beat

The murmuring walks like autumn rain.

How fast the flitting figures come!

The mild, the fierce, the stony face;

Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some Where secret tears have left their trace.

They pass to toil, to strife, to rest;
To halls in which the feast is spread;

To chambers where the funeral guest
In silence sits beside the dead.

And some to happy homes repair,

Where children, pressing cheek to cheek,