Part 7 (1/2)

--_James T. White._

Who loves not June Is out of tune With love and G.o.d; The rose his rival reigns, The stars reject his pains, His home the clod!

And yet I trow, When sweet _rondeau_ Doth play a part, The curtain drops on June; Veiled is the modest moon-- Hushed is the heart.

_AUTUMN_

Quickly earth's jewels disappear; The turf, whereon I tread, Ere autumn blanch another year, May rest above my head.

Touched by the finger of decay Is every earthly love; For joy, to shun my weary way, Is registered above.

The languid brooklets yield their sighs, A requiem o'er the tomb Of sunny days and cloudless skies, Enhancing autumn's gloom.

The wild winds mutter, howl, and moan, To scare my woodland walk, And frightened fancy flees, to roam Where ghosts and goblins stalk.

The cricket's sharp, discordant scream Fills mortal sense with dread; More sorrowful it scarce could seem; It voices beauty fled.

Yet here, upon this faded sod,-- O happy hours and fleet,-- When songsters' matin hymns to G.o.d Are poured in strains so sweet,

My heart unbidden joins rehea.r.s.e, I hope it's better made, When mingling with the universe, Beneath the maple's shade.

Written in girlhood, in a maple grove.

_ALPHABET AND BAYONET_

If fancy plumes aerial flight, Go fix thy restless mind On learning's lore and wisdom's might, And live to bless mankind.

The sword is sheathed, 'tis freedom's hour, No despot bears misrule, Where knowledge plants the foot of power In our G.o.d-blessed free school.

Forth from this fount the streamlets flow, That widen in their course.

Hero and sage arise to show Science the mighty source, And laud the land whose talents rock The cradle of her power, And wreaths are twined round Plymouth Rock, From erudition's bower.

Farther than feet of chamois fall, Free as the generous air, Strains n.o.bler far than clarion call Wake freedom's welcome, where Minerva's silver sandals still Are loosed, and not effete; Where echoes still my day-dreams thrill, Woke by her fancied feet.

_THE COUNTRY-SEAT_

Wild spirit of song,--midst the zephyrs at play In bowers of beauty,--I bend to thy lay, And woo, while I wors.h.i.+p in deep sylvan spot, The Muses' soft echoes to kindle the grot.

Wake chords of my lyre, with musical kiss, To vibrate and tremble with accents of bliss.

Here morning peers out, from her crimson repose, On proud Prairie Queen and the modest Moss-rose; And vesper reclines--when the dewdrop is shed On the heart of the pink--in its odorous bed; But Flora has stolen the rainbow and sky, To sprinkle the flowers with exquisite dye.

Here fame-honored hickory rears his bold form, And bares a brave breast to the lightning and storm, While palm, bay, and laurel, in cla.s.sical glee, Chase tulip, magnolia, and fragrant fringe-tree; And st.u.r.dy horse-chestnut for centuries hath given Its feathery blossom and branches to heaven.

Here is life! Here is youth! Here the poet's world-wish,-- Cool waters at play with the gold-gleaming fish; While cactus a mellower glory receives From light colored softly by blossom and leaves; And nestling alder is whispering low, In lap of the pear-tree, with musical flow.[1]