Ye Are Not Miss’D, Fair Flowers!

Ye are not miss’d, fair flowers, that late were spreading The summer’s glow by fount and breezy grot; There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding-- The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you not.

Still plays the sparkle o’er the rippling water, O lily! whence thy cup of pearl is gone; The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daughter, There is no sorrow in the wind’s low tone.

And thou, meek hyacinth! afar is roving The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss’d. Cradled ye were, fair flowers! ’midst all things loving, A joy to all--yet, yet, ye are not miss’d!

Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness, And the winds fragrance, wandering where they list, Oh! it were breathing words too deep in sadness, To say earth’s human flowers not more are miss’d.

THE WILLOW SONG.

Willow! in thy breezy moan, I can hear a deeper tone; Through thy leaves come whispering low, Faint, sweet sounds of long ago. Willow, sighing willow!

Many a mournful tale of old Heart-sick love to thee hath told, Gathering from thy golden bough Leaves to cool his burning brow. Willow! sighing willow!

Many a swan-like song to thee Hath been sung, thou gentle tree! Many a lute its last lament Down thy moonlight stream hath sent. Willow! sighing willow!

Therefore, wave and murmur on! Sigh for sweet affections gone, And for tuneful voices fled, And for love, whose heart hath bled, Ever, willow! willow!

LEAVE ME NOT YET.

Leave me not yet! through rosy skies from far, But now the song-birds to their nests return; The quivering image of the first pale star On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn: Leave me not yet!

Not yet! oh, hark! low tones from hidden streams, Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise; Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams, They are of vesper’s hymns and harmonies: Leave me not yet!

My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love! By day shut up in their own still recess; They wait for dews on earth, for stars above, Then to breathe out their soul of tenderness: Leave me not yet!

THE ORANGE BOUGH.

Oh! bring me one sweet orange-bough, To fan my cheek, to cool my brow; One bough, with pearly blossoms drest, And bind it, mother! on my breast!

Go, seek the grove along the shore, Whose odours I must breathe no more; The grove where every scented tree Thrills to the deep voice of the sea.

Oh! Love’s fond sighs, and fervent prayer, And wild farewell, are lingering there: Each leaf’s light whisper hath a tone My faint heart, even in death, would own.

Then bear me thence one bough, to shed Life’s parting sweetness round my head; And bind it, mother! on my breast When I am laid in lonely rest.

THE STREAM SET FREE.

Flow on, rejoice, make music, Bright living stream set free! The troubled haunts of care and strife Were not for thee!

The woodland is thy country, Thou art all its own again; The wild birds are thy kindred race, That fear no chain.

Flow on, rejoice, make music Unto the glistening leaves! Thou, the beloved of balmy winds And golden eaves!

Once more the holy starlight Sleeps calm upon thy breast, Whose brightness bears no token more Of man’s unrest.

Flow, and let freeborn music Flow with thy wavy line, While the stock-dove’s lingering, loving voice Comes blent with thine.

And the green reeds quivering o’er thee, Strings of the forest-lyre, All fill’d with answering spirit-sounds, In joy respire.

Yet, midst thy song’s glad changes, Oh! keep one pitying tone For gentle hearts, that bear to thee Their sadness lone.

One sound, of all the deepest, To bring, like healing dew, A sense that nature ne’er forsakes The meek and true.

Then, then, rejoice, make music, Thou stream, thou glad and free! The shadows of all glorious flowers Be set in thee!