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[These poems were written for the most part during my col

lege 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, whieh I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys and safely lodg. ed, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb.”]


When the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, ’T is 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 sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives : Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,

The drooping tree revives.

The softly-warbled song Comes through the pleasant woods, and colored wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along

The forest openings.

And when 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,
In the blue lake the sky, o'erreaching far,
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn,

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
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,

Life's golden fruit is shed.

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