HYMN TO THE SUN.

GIVER of glowing light! Though but a god of other days, The kings and sages

Of wiser ages

Still live and gladden in thy genial rays.

King of the tuneful lyre,
Still poets' hymns to thee belong;
Though lips are cold

Whereon of old

Thy beams all turned to worshipping and song!

Lord of the dreadful bow,
None triumph now for Python's death;

But thou dost save

From hungry grave

The life that hangs upon a summer breath.

Father of rosy day,

No more thy clouds of incense rise ;

But waking flowers

At morning hours

Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.

God of the Delphic fane,

No more thou listenest to hymns sublime;

AUTUMN.

THE autumn skies are flushed with gold,
And fair and bright the rivers rụn;
These are but streams of winter cold,
And painted mists that quench the sun.

In secret boughs no sweet birds sing,
In secret boughs no bird can shroud;
These are but leaves that take to wing,
And wintry winds that pipe so loud.

"Tis not trees' shade, but cloudy glooms
That on the cheerless valleys fall;
The flowers are in their grassy tombs,
And tears of dew are on them all.

TO A COLD BEAUTY.

LADY, wouldst thou heiress be

To Winter's cold and cruel part?
When he sets the rivers free,

Thou dost still lock up thy heart;-
Thou that shouldst outlast the snow
But in the whiteness of thy brow?

Scorn and cold neglect are made

For winter gloom and winter wind, But thou wilt wrong the summer air, Breathing it to words unkind, Breath which only should belong To love, to sunlight, and to song!

When the little buds unclose,
Red, and white, and pied, and blue,
And that virgin flower, the rose,

Opes her heart to hold the dew,
Wilt thou lock thy bosom up
With no jewel in its cup?

Let not cold December sit

Thus in Love's peculiar throne; Brooklets are not prisoned now,

But crystal frosts are all agone,
And that which hangs upon the spray,
It is no snow, but flower of May!

RUTH.

SHE stood breast-high amid the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripened ; - such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell;
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks:-

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean

Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; Lay thy sheaf adown, and come,

Share my harvest and my

home.

BALLAD.

SHE'S up and gone,

the graceless girl!

And robbed my failing years;

My blood before was thin and cold,

But now 'tis turned to tears

;

My shadow falls upon my grave;
So near the brink I stand,
She might have staid a little yet,
And led me by the hand!

Ay, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill,
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,
And plover's answer shrill;
My child is flown on wilder wings
Than they have ever spread,

And I may even walk a waste
That widened when she fled.

Full

many a thankless child has been, But never one like mine;

Her meat was served on plates of gold,

Her drink was rosy wine;

But now she'll share the robin's food,
And sup the common rill,

Before her feet will turn again
To meet her father's will!

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I REMEMBER, I remember

The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember
The roses red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set

The laburnum on his birth-day,-
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember

The fir-trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky :