Dead Nature soon will wear her shroud of snow
And lie entombed in Winter's icy grave.
Thus passes life. As hoary age comes on
The joys of youth--bright beauties of the spring,
Grow dim and faded, and the long dark night
Of Death's chill Winter comes. But as the spring
Rebuilds the ruined wrecks of Winter's waste,
And cheers the gloomy earth with joyous light,
So o'er the tomb, the Star of Hope shall rise,
And usher in an ever during day.
_Quarterly_, 1854.
[Footnote 1: Died 1881.]
IN THE FOREST
ANON.
We lie beneath the forest shade
Whose sunny tremors dapple us;
She is a proud-eyed Grecian maid
And I am Sardanapalus;
A king uncrowned whose sole allegiance
Resides in dusky forest regions.
How cool and liquid seems the sky;
How blue and still the distance is!
White fleets of cloud at anchor lie
And mute are all existences,
Save here and there a bird that launches
A shaft of song among the branches.
Within this alien realm of shade
We keep a sylvan Passover;
We happy twain, a wayward maid,
A careless, gay philosopher;
But unto me she seems a Venus
And Paphian grasses nod between us.
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