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EARLIER POEMS. [These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion; "I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."]
'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain.
I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming-on of storms.
From the earth's loosened mould
The drooping tree revives.
The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and coloured wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along
The forest openings.
When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,
And wide the upland glows.
And, when the eve is born,
And twinkles many a star.
Inverted in the tide, Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw; And the fair trees look over, side by side,
And see themselves below.
Sweet April!-many a thought
Life's golden fruit is shed.
With what a glory comes and goes the year!