Whose close-ribbed arches still
Frown in their green old age,
And stamp an awfull chill
Upon that pregnant page?

Yes, thither let us turne,
To this Time-shattered urne,
And quaintly carved stone-
(Dim wrackes of ages gone ;)
Here in this mouldering tomb
We'll con that noblest truth,
The Flesh and Spirit's doome-
Dust and Immortall Youthe.

They come! the merry summer months

THE

HEY come! the merry summer months of
Beauty, Song, and Flowers ;

They come ! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers.

Up, up, my heart, and walk abroad, fling cark and care aside,

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide;

Or underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal

tree,

Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the

hand,

And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland;

The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously,

It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and welcome thee;

And mark how with thine own thin locks,-they now are silvery grey,—

That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering "Be gay!"

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon

sky

But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody: Thou see'st their glittering fans outspread all gleaming like red gold,

And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold.

God bless them all, these little ones, who far above this earth

Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound, from yonder wood it came;

The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name :—

Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind

Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind;

Cuckoo ! Cuckoo! he sings again,-his notes are void of art,

But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart!

Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thoughtcrazed wight like me

To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree!

To suck once more in every breath their little souls

away,

And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day,

When rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy

Wandered through green woods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!

I'm sadder now, I have had cause; but O! I'm proud to think

That each pure joy-fount loved of yore, I yet delight to drink ;

Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky,

Still mingle music with my dreams as in the days gone by.

When summer's loveliness and light fall round me

dark and cold,

I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse,—a heart that hath waxed old!

CLARE

Home Yearnings

FOR that sweet, untroubled rest
That poets oft have sung!—

The babe upon its mother's breast,
The bird upon its young,

The heart asleep without a pain--
When shall I know that sleep again?

When shall I be as I have been
Upon my mother's breast-

Sweet Nature's garb of verdant green
To woo to perfect rest—

Love in the meadow, field and glen,

And in my native wilds again?

The sheep within the fallow field,
The herd upon the green,
The larks that in the thistle shield,
And pipe from morn to e'en-
O for the pasture, fields, and fen!
When shall I see such rest again?

I love the weeds along the fen,
More sweet than garden flowers,
For freedom haunts the humble glen
That blest my happiest hours.
Here prison injures health and me :
I love sweet freedom and the free.

The crows upon the swelling hills,
The cows upon the lea,

Sheep feeding by the pasture rills,
Are ever dear to me,

Because sweet freedom is their mate,
While I am lone and desolate.

I loved the winds when I was young,
When life was dear to me;

I loved the song which Nature sung,
Endearing liberty;

I loved the woods, the vale, the stream,
For there my boyhood used to dream.

There even toil itself was play; 'Twas pleasure e'en to weep; 'Twas joy to think of dreams by day, The beautiful of sleep.

When shall I see the wood and plain,

And dream those happy dreams again?