MY NATIVE GLEN. Unnumber'd flowers bestrewn by nature's hand, In fair luxuriance bud and bloom around; While fancy reigns, and smiles upon the land, Above, and round this consecrated ground. My native glen! from you, when far away, My dreams will still inhale your fresh perfume, Where through the woodruff's fragrancy I stray, Or linger round the yellow banks of broom. At morn, when all around is hush'd in sleep, Within your dark and leafy dells to muse; Or wander o'er the bushy mountain's brow, Where brawling comes the voice of rushing floods Unseen, while yet the wreathing mists impend, 'Tis sweet in such a lovely wilderness, Ere sleeping flowers their dewy breasts unfold To the morning's sun, the tufted lawn to press, And hear the matin song ring through the wold. 199 In scenes like these, remote from human bield, In peace with th' calm, a rural life might yield, And hail yon moss-crown'd cavern as my own. Fond recollections! glens, and woods, and all Your dear remembrance, like a morning's dream. On some far distant day, when seas, between Us lie; Time's signet, while the warm tears glow, Shall ne'er efface you, nor this smiling scene, Where all my hopes concentrate, ebb, and flow. Mellow thy notes, sweet bird! the dingle rings Thy warblings louder, wouldst thou wert at rest, And roosting on the spray: Each note thou sings, Thrills sadness through this throbbing fever'd breast. VERNAL FLOWERS. THE yellow Aconite from winter's urn, With many an early spring-flower in her train, Starring the landscape, welcome spring's return, Awakening vegetation o'er the plain: THE WIND-FLOWER. 201 From glen to grove, each small bird's voice again Rings music on the breeze-now the pleas'd eye Can watch the vernal flower through its short reign, Whether its virgin bud conceal'd may lie 'Mong wither'd leaves, or 'neath the budding thorn. Or dips its crimson cups in the pure stream, Watering its new-born blossoms, while the morn Of sunshine wakens up new flowers to blow, THE WIND-FLOWER. I watch'd the Wind-Flower, as she, leaf by leaf, Her angel frame, and droop'd her in her prime. Till spring again the wood and lawn perfumes. WRITTEN AT SEA. It is pleasant to gaze on the deep blue sky, How lovely then on the calm green sea, All sparkling bright, whose bars infold Our bark as on fairy ground. As our prow glides through, we wondering gaze On the far spread phosphorescent blaze, While from each curling wave, Bright bars of gold spring up, then glide We near'd the shore, when the dawning morn Illumin'd the waves, and the spell was gone; But never from this breast Shall a sight so glorious and sublime, Ere be effaced, in whatever clime My pilgrim'd footsteps rest. THE COLD SPRING. 203 WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF THE COLD SPRING, 1827. As yet the trembling year is unconfirm❜d, And winter oft at eve resumes the breeze, 'Tis April! yet the snow-storm hovers round, To blight and scare thee in thy growth-sweet flower, The flakes fall fast around thee, while the ground Crisps to my tread-all yield to winter's power But thee, and the young snow-drop; left at will What poet with a scene so drear, forlorn, Would mantle spring, in smiling robes of green! For see her shivering in the chills of morn, Where panzied tufts, and primrose beds have been And should be blooming now, where snow-clad bowers Shrine April in the wilderness around, Of fair and spotless purity, where flowers Shrink from the clear cold air within the ground, And nestle their young buds in the wither'd leaves, |