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HORACE SMITH.

THE FIRST OF MARCH.

THE bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud,
And Earth's beginning now in her veins to feel the blood,
Which warm'd by summer suns in th' alembic of the vine,
From her founts will over-run in a ruddy gush of wine.

The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the flower,
Are quickening in the gloom of their subterranean bower;
And the juices meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits,
Unerringly proceed to their pre-appointed roots.

How awful is the thought of the wonders underground,
Of the mystic changes wrought in the silent, dark profound;
How each thing upward tends by necessity decreed,
And a world's support depends on the shooting of a seed!

The summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinion'd day

Is commission'd to remark whether Winter holds her sway:
Go back, thou dove of peace, with the myrtle on thy wing,

Say that floods and tempests cease, and the world is ripe for Spring.

Thou hast fann'd the sleeping Earth till her dreams are all of flowers.
And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging bowers;

The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves,
And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer eves.

Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave,

By the dormouse in its cell, and the mole within its cave;
And the summer tribes that creep, or in air expand their wing,
Have started from their sleep at the summons of the Spring.

HARVEST HOME.

The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills,
And the feather'd race rejoices with a gush of tuneful bills;
And if this cloudless arch fills the poet's song with glee,
O thou sunny first of March, be it dedicate to thee.

DARLEY.

HARVEST HOME.

Down the dimpled green-sward dancing
Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy,

Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing,
Love's irregular little levy.

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter,

How they glimmer, how they quiver!

Sparkling one another after,

Like bright ripples on a river.

Tipsy band of rubious faces,

Flushed with joy's ethereal spirit,
Make your mocks and sly grimaces
At Love's self, and do not fear it.

PRAED.

CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS.

ONCE on a time, when sunny May
Was kissing up the April showers,
I saw fair CHILDHOOD hard at play
Upon a bank of blushing flowers;
Happy, he knew not whence or how;

And smiling,-who could choose but love him? For not more glad than CHILDHOOD's brow, Was the blue heaven that beamed above him.

Old TIME, in most appalling wrath,

That valley's green repose invaded;
The brooks grew dry upon his path,
The birds were mute, the lilies faded;
But Time so swiftly winged his flight,
In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,
That CHILDHOOD watched his paper kite.
And knew just nothing of the matter.

With curling lip, and glancing eye,

GUILT gazed upon the scene a minute.

But CHILDHOOD's glance of purity

Had such a holy spell within it,

That the dark demon to the air

Spread forth again his baffled pinion,

And hid his envy and despair,
Self-tortured, in his own dominion.

CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS.

Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,

Pale, cypress-crowned, Night's awful daughter, And proffered him a fearful cup,

Full to the brim of bitter water:

Poor CHILDHOOD bade her tell her name,

And when the beldame muttered "SORROW," He said,-"Don't interrupt my game;

I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow."

The MUSE of Pindus thither came,

And wooed him with the softest numbers

That ever scattered wealth and fame
Upon a youthful poet's slumbers;
Though sweet the music of the lay,

TO CHILDHOOD it was all a riddle,
And "Oh," he cried, "do send away

That noisy woman with the fiddle."

Then WISDOM stole his bat and ball,

And taught him with most sage endeavour,

Why bubbles rise, and acorns fall,

And why no toy may last for ever:

She talked of all the wondrous laws

Which NATURE's open book discloses, And CHILDHOOD, ere she made a pause, Was fast asleep among the roses.

Sleep on, sleep on!-Oh! MANHOOD's dreams
Are all of earthly pain, or pleasure,
Of GLORY'S toils, AMBITION's schemes,
Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure:
But to the couch where CHILDHOOD lies

A more delicious trance is given,

Lit up by rays from Seraph-eyes,
And glimpses of remembered heaven!

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SOME years ago, ere Time and Taste Had turn'd our Parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,

And roads as little known as scurvy, The man, who lost his way between St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always shown across the Green, And guided to the Parson's wicket.

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