For here are eyes that shame the violet,
Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies,
And foreheads, white, as when in clusters set,
The anemones by forest fountains rise;
And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak
Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek.

And thick about those lovely temples lie
Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled,

Thrice happy man! whose trade it is to buy,

And bake, and braid those love-knots of the world; Who curls of every glossy colour keepest,

And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest.

And well thou mayst for Italy's brown maids

Send the dark locks with which their brows are dressed, And Gascon lasses, from their jetty braids,

Crop half, to buy a riband for the rest;
But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare,
And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair.

Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron grieve,
To see her locks of an unlovely hue,

Frouzy or thin, for liberal art shall give

Such piles of curls as nature never knew.

Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight

Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a fright

Soft voices and light laughter wake the street,

Like notes of woodbirds, and where'er the eye

Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet
Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by.
The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space,
Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace.

No swimming Juno gait, of languor born,
Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace,
Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn,―

A step that speaks the spirit of the place,
Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away
To Sing Sing and the shores of Tappan bay.

Ye that dash by in chariots! who will care
For steeds or footmen now? ye cannot show
Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air,
And last edition of the shape! Ah no,
These sights are for the earth and open sky,
And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by.

THE GLADNESS OF NATURE.

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,

When our mother Nature laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad,

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;
The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den,
And the wilding bee hums merrily by.

The clouds are at play in the azure space,

And their shadows at play on the bright green vale,

And here they stretch to the frolic chase,

And there they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,
There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles;

Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR.

GATHER him to his grave again,

And solemnly and softly lay, Beneath the verdure of the plain,

The warrior's scattered bones away.

Pay the deep reverence, taught of old,
The homage of man's heart to death;
Nor dare to trifle with the mould

Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath.

The soul hath quickened every part-
That remnant of a martial brow,
Those ribs that held the mighty heart,
That strong arm-strong no longer now.
Spare them, each mouldering relic spare,
Of God's own image; let them rest,
Till not a trace shall speak of where

The awful likeness was impressed.

For he was fresher from the hand

That formed of earth the human face,

And to the elements did stand

In nearer kindred, than our race. In many a flood to madness tossed,

In many a storm has been his path; He hid him not from heat or frost,

But met them, and defied their wrath.

Then they were kind-the forests here,
Rivers, and stiller waters, paid

A tribute to the net and spear

Of the red ruler of the shade.
Fruits on the woodland branches lay,
Roots in the shaded soil below,

The stars looked forth to teach his way,
The still earth warned him of the foe.

A noble race! but they are gone,
With their old forests wide and deep,
And we have built our homes upon
Fields where their generations sleep.
Their fountains slake our thirst at noon,
Upon their fields our harvest waves,
Our lovers woo beneath their moon-

Then let us spare, at least, their graves!