HYMN TO THE SUN.

I.

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.

II.

King of the tuneful lyre.

Still poets' hymns to thee belong;

Though lips are cold

Whereon of old

Thy beams all turn'd to worshipping and so

III.

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.

IV.

Father of rosy day,

No more thy clouds of incense rise ;

But waking flow'rs

At morning hours,

Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.

V.

God of the Delphic fane,

No more thou listenest to hymns sublime;

But they will leave

On winds at eve,

A solemn echo to the end of time.

VOL. I.

18

TO A COLD BEAUTY.

I.

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?

II.

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!

III.

When the little buds unclose,

Red, and white, and pied, and blue,

And that virgin flow'r, the rose,

Opes her heart to hold the dew,

Wilt thou lock thy bosom up
With no jewel in its cup?

IV.

Let not cold December sit

Thus in Love's peculiar throne ;— Brooklets are not prison'd 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,
Clasp'd 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 ripen'd ;--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 veil'd 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, heav'n did not mean,
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.