PARK BENJAMIN.

I.

FLOWERS LOVE'S TRUEST LANGUAGE.

FLOWERS are Love's truest language; they betray, Like the divining-rods of Magi old,

Where precious wealth lies buried, not of gold, But love,

strong love, that never can decay!

I send thee flowers, O dearest! and I deem

That from their petals thou wilt hear sweet words, Whose music, clearer than the voice of birds, When breathed to thee alone, perchance, may seem All eloquent of feelings unexpressed.

O, wreathe them in those tresses of dark hair!
Let them repose upon thy forehead fair,

And on thy bosom's yielding snow be pressed!.
Thus shall thy fondness for my flowers reveal
The love that maiden coyness would conceal!

II.

THE STARS.

WHAT marvel is it, that, in other lands

And ancient days, men worshipped the divine. And brilliant majesty of stars that shine Pure in their lofty spheres, like angel-bands? With a deep reverence, when evening came,

With her high train of shadows, have I bowed Beneath the heaven, as each new-lighted flame Glowed in the sapphire free from mist or cloud : A holy presence seemed to fill the air,

Invisible spirits, such as live in dreams, Came floating down on their celestial beams, And from my heart there rose a silent prayer. What marvel, then, that men of yore could see

In each bright star a glorious deity?

III.

SPRING.

THE birds sing cheerily, the streamlets shout

As if in echo; tones are all around :

The air is filled with one pervading sound

Of merriment. Bright creatures flit about;

Slight spears of emerald glitter from the ground, And frequent flowers, like helms of bloom, are found; And, from the invisible army of fair things,

Floats a low murmur like a distant sea!

I hear the clarions of the insect-kings
Marshal their busy cohorts on the lea.
Life, life in action, — 't is all music, all,

From the enlivening cry of children free
To the swift dash of waters as they fall,

Released by thee, O Spring, to glad, wild liberty!

IV.

TWILIGHT.

CALM twilight! in thy mild and silent time,
When summer flowers their perfume shed around,
And naught, save the deep, solitary sound
Of some far bell, is heard, with solemn chime
Tolling for vespers, or the evening bird
Pouring sweet music o'er the woodland glade,
As if to viewless sprites and fairies played,

Who join in dances when the strain is heard:
Then thoughts of those beloved and dearest come
Like sweetest hues upon the shadowed wave;
And joys, that blossomed in the bowers of home,
The dews of memory with freshness lave.
O, that my last daybeam of life would shine,
Serenely beautiful, calm hour, as thine!

V.

(Written in view of the harbor of New York from the banks of the North River, on the loveliest and calmest of the last days of autumn.)

Is this a painting? Are those pictured clouds
Which on the sky so movelessly repose?
Has some rare artist fashioned forth the shrouds
Of yonder vessel? Are these imaged shows
Of outline, figure, form, or is there life-

Life with a thousand pulses — in the scene
We gaze upon? Those towering banks between,
E'er tossed these billows in tumultuous strife?
Billows! there's not a wave! the waters spread
One broad, unbroken mirror! all around
Is hushed to silence - silence so profound
That a bird's carol, or an arrow sped

Into the distance, would, like larum bell,
Jar the deep stillness and dissolve the spell!