YOUTH RENEWED.

YES; with heavy dashing

Of a shower just shed,
On the gloomy beech tree,

Wet were leaves o'erhead.

Wet were all the roses

On the garden wire,

Wet were all the corn-fields,
Flakes of yellow fire.

By the gloomy beech tree,
By the roses wan,
Looking on the corn-fields,
Whence the gold was gone,
Walked I sadly thinking,
"I am no more young,"
When among the dripping
Leaves a wild bird sung.

Ah! I thought, it chanted

Some immortal strain

Of a silver sunshine

Coming after rain ;

HINTS OF THE DIVINE.

I.

A SEA GLEAM.

'TWAS a sullen summer day;

Skies were neither dark nor clear,

Heaven in the distance sheer

Over sharp cliffs sloped away—
Ocean did not yet appear.

Not as yet a white sail shimmer'd,
Not with full expanse divine
Did the great Atlantic shine;
Only very far there glimmer'd
Dimly one long tremulous line.

In the hedge were roses snow'd
Or blush'd o'er by summer morn,
Right and left grew fields of corn,
Stretching greenly from the road-
From the hay a breath was borne.

Not of small sweet wild rose twine,
Not of young corn waving free,
Not of clover fields thought we;
Only to that dim bright line

Looking, cried we, "'Tis the sea.”

H

In life's sullen summer day
Lo! before us dull hills rise,
And above, unlovely skies,
Slope off with their bluish grey
Into some far mysteries.

Love's sweet roses, hope's young corn,
Green fields whisper'd round and round
By the breezes landward bound

(Yet, ah! scalded too and torn

By the sea winds), there are found.

And at times in life's dull day,

From the flower, and the sod,

And the hill our feet have trod

To a brightness far away,

Turn we saying, "This is God."

II.

AMONG THE SAND-HILLS.

FROM the ocean half a rood

To the sand-hills long and low

Ever and anon I go ;

Hide from me the gleaming flood,
Only listen to its flow.

To those billowy curls of sand
Little of delight is lent-

As it were a yellow tent,

Here and there by some wild hand
Pitch'd, and overgrown with bent.

Some few buds like golden beads
Cut in stars on leaves that shine
Greenly, and a fragrance fine
Of the ocean's delicate weeds,
Of his fresh and foamy wine.

But the place is music haunted.
Let there blow what wind soever;—
Now as by a stately river,

A monotonous requiem's chanted;
Now you hear great pine woods shiver.

Frequent when the tides are low

Creep for hours sweet sleepy hums.
But when in the spring tide comes,

Then the silver trumpets blow

And the waters beat like drums.

And the Atlantic's roll full often,
Muffled by the sand-hills round,
Seems a mighty city's sound,
Which the night-wind serves to soften
By the waker's pillow drown'd:

Seems a salvo-state or battles-
Through the purple mountain gaps
Heard by peasants; or perhaps
Seems a wheel that rolls or rattles;

Seems an eagle's wing that flaps ;