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False lights, that lead the soul to rove,
Then vanish in an hour!
By CHARLES MACKAY.
So can l;
So have I;
Nor can I.
Night and day?
No, not they
Bless'd be they !
And would grieve?
By my leave ?
When he'd play ;
Great are they ;
I wear the cap and he the crown
What of that ?
What of that ?
What of that?
AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY.
By W. C. Bryant.
The Easter sparrow repeats his song;
The idle blossoms, that sleep so long.
A hymn to welcome the budding year : The south wind wanders from field to forest,
And softly whispers the spring is here! Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city,
Before these lays from the elm have ceased; The violet breathes by our door as sweetly
As in the air of her native East. Though many a flower in the wood is waking,
The daffodil is our door-side queen: She pushes upward the sward already,
To spot with sunshine the early green. No lays so joyous as these are warbled
From wiry prison in maiden's bower; No pamper'd bloom of the green-house chamber
Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower.
Yet these sweet lays of the early season,
And these fair sights of its sunny days, Are only sweet when we fondly listen,
And only fair when we fondly gaze.
There is no glory in star or blossom
Till look'd upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April's breezes
Till breathed with joy as they wander by.
Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows,
The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks, And hollows green in the sun are waiting
Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks.
THE WOOD THRUSH.
By BARRY CORNWALL.
From our greenwood bowers?
Where the white-thorn flowers ?
Bid him come! for on his wings,
The sunny year he bringeth;
Wheresoe'er he singeth.
Lover-like the creature waits,
And when morning soareth,
Toward the dawn he poureth.
Sweet one, why art thou not heard
Now, where woods are stillest ?
- Whatsoe'er thou willest ;
Laughing thoughts,—delighting songs,
Dreams of azure hours, -
Is to see thee ours !
'Tis enough that thou should'st sing
For thy own pure pleasure;
Sweeten'd human leisure !
THE BIRD AND THE SHIP.
Translated from the German of MULLER, by LONGFELLOW.
“ The rivers rush into the sea,
By castle and town they go;
Their noisy trumpets blow.
We little birds in them play ;
Goes with us, and far away.
With thy fluttering golden band ?" —
I haste from the narrow land.
" Full and swollen is every sail ;
I see no longer a hill,
And it will not let me stand still.
" And wilt thou, little bird, go with us?
Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall,
With merry companions all.”—
"I need not and seek not company,
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone;
Bonny boat, I have wings of my own.
Who shall gainsay these joys ?
Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice.
God bless them every one!
And the golden fields of the sun..
“ Thus do I sing my weary song,
Wherever the four winds blow;
Neither poet nor printer may know."
SHE how yon flaming herald treads
The ridged and rolling waves,
She bows her surly slaves !
She rends the clinging sea,
Beneath her hissing lee.
The morning spray, like sea-born flowers,
With heap'd and glistening bells,
With every wave that swells;
In lurid fringes thrown,
Along her flashing zone.
With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,
And smoking torch on high,
She thunders foaming by;
With even beam she glides, The sunshine glimmering through the green
That skirts her gleaming sides.
Now, like a wild nymph, far apart
She veils her shadowy form, The beating of her restless heart
Still sounding through the storm;