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Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love;

Spirit of the new-wakened year! The sun in his blue realm above

Smooths'a bright path when thou art here.

In lawns the murmuring bee is heard,

The wooing ring-dove in the shade; On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird

Takes wing, half happy, half afraid.

Ah! thou art like our wayward race ;

When not a shade of pain or ill Dims the bright smile of Nature's face,

Thou lovest to sigh and murmur still.



EREWHILE, on England's pleasant shores, our sires Left not their churchyards unadorned with shades Or blossoms; and indulgent to the strong And natural dread of man's last home, the grave, Its frost and silence--they disposed around, To soothe the melancholy spirit that dwelt Too sadly on life's close, the forms and hues Of vegetable beauty. There the yew, Green even amid the snows of winter, told Of immortality, and gracefully The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped ; And there the gadding woodbine crept about, And there the ancient ivy. From the spot Where the sweet maiden, in her blossoming years Cut off, was laid with streaming eyes, and hands That trembled as they placed her there, the rose Sprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better spoke Her graces, than the proudest monument.

There children set about their playmate's grave
The pansy. On the infant's little bed,
Wet at its planting with maternal tears,
Emblem of early sweetness, early death,
Nestled the lowly primrose. Childless dames,
And maids that would not raise the reddened eye-
Orphans, from whose young lids the light of joy
Fled early,-silent lovers, who had given
All that they lived for to the arms of earth,
Came often, o'er the recent graves to strew
Their offerings, rue, and rosemary, and flowers.

The pilgrim bands who passed the sea to keep Their Sabbaths in the eye of God alone, In his wide temple of the wilderness, Brought not these simple customs of the heart With them. It might be, while they laid their dead By the vast solemn skirts of the old groves, And the fresh virgin soil poured forth strange flowers About their graves; and the familiar shades Of their own native isle, and wonted blooms, And herbs were wanting, which the pious hand Might plant or scatter there, these gentle rites Passed out of use. Now they are scarcely known, And rarely in our borders may you meet The tall larch, sighing in the burying-place, Or willow, trailing low its boughs to hide

The gleaming marble. Naked rows of graves
And melancholy ranks of monuments
Are seen instead, where the coarse grass, between,

up its dull green spikes, and in the wind
Hisses, and the neglected bramble nigh,
Offers its berries to the schoolboy's hand,
In vain—they grow too near the dead. Yet here,
Nature, rebuking the neglect of man,
Plants often, by the ancient mossy stone,
The brier rose, and upon the broken turf
That clothes the fresher grave, the strawberry vine
Sprinkles its swell with blossoms, and lays forth
Her ruddy, pouting fruit.



Oh, deem not they are blest alone

Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;
The Power who pities man, has shown

A blessing for the eyes that weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again

The lids that overflow with tears ;
And weary hours of woe and pain

Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest

For every dark and troubled night;
And grief may bide an evening guest,

But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier,

Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere

Will give him to thy arms again.

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