--_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 worship 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]

Dark sentinel hedgerow is guarding repose, Midst grotto and songlet and streamlet that flows Where beauty and perfume from buds burst away, And ope their closed cells to the bright, laughing day; Yet, dwellers in Eden, earth yields you her tear,-- Oft plucked for the banquet, but laid on the bier.

Earth's beauty and glory delude as the shrine Or fount of real joy and of visions divine; But hope, as the eaglet that spurneth the sod, May soar above matter, to fasten on G.o.d, And freely adore all His spirit hath made, Where rapture and radiance and glory ne'er fade.

Oh, give me the spot where affection may dwell In sacred communion with home's magic spell!

Where flowers of feeling are fragrant and fair, And those we most love find a happiness rare; But clouds are a presage,--they darken my lay: This life is a shadow, and hastens away.

[1] An alder growing from the bent branch of a pear-tree.

_TO ELLEN._ "_SING ME THAT SONG!_"

Sing me that song! My spirit is sad, Life's pulses move fitful and slow; A meeting with loved ones in dreams I have had, Whose robes were as spotless as snow: A phantom of joy, it fled with the light, And left but a parting in air.

My soul is enchained to life's dreary night, O sing me "Sweet hour of prayer"!

Ah, sleep, twin sister of death and of night!

My thoughts 'neath thy drap'ry still lie.

Alas! that from dreams so boundless and bright We waken to life's dreary sigh.

Those moments most sweet are fleetest alway, For love claspeth earth's raptures not long, Till darkness and death like mist melt away, To rise to a seraph's new song.

O'er ocean or Alps, the stranger who roams But gathers a wreath for his bier; For life hath its music in low minor tones, And _man_ is the cause of its tear.

But drops of pure nectar our br.i.m.m.i.n.g cup fill, When we walk by that murmuring stream; Or when, like the thrill of that mountain rill, Your songs float in memory's dream.

Sweet spirit of love, at soft eventide Wake gently the chords of her lyre, And whisper of one who sat by her side To join with the neighboring choir; And tell how that heart is silent and sad, No melody sweeps o'er its strings!

'Tis breaking alone, but a young heart and glad-- Might cheer it, perchance, when she sings.

Lynn, Ma.s.s., _August 25, 1866_.

_LINES, ON VISITING PINE GROVE CEMETERY_

Ah, why should the brief bliss of life's little day Grow cold in this spot as the spiritless clay, And thought be at work with the long-buried hours, And tears be bedewing these fresh-smiling flowers!

Ah, wherefore the memory of dear ones deemed dead Should bow thee, as winds bow the tall willow's head!

Beside you they walk while you weep, and but pa.s.s From your sight as the shade o'er the dark wavy gra.s.s.

The cypress may mourn with her evergreen tears, And, like the blue hyacinth, change not with years; Yea, flowers of feeling may blossom above, To yield earth the fragrance of goodness and love;