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Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, And that soft time of sunny showers, When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours.
Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine Too brightly to shine long; another Spring Shall deck her for men's eyes, but not for thineSealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,
And the vexed ore no mineral of power; And they who love thee wait in anxious grief
Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour. Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come, Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee,
As light winds wandering through groves of
Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain; And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.
AN INDIAN STORY.
"I KNOW where the timid fawn abides
In the depths of the shaded dell, Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides, With its many stems and its tangled sides, From the eye of the hunter well.
"I know where the young May violet grows, In its lone and lowly nook,
On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws
66 And that timid fawn starts not with fear
To look on the lovely flower."
Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks
To the hunting ground on the hills; "Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, With her bright black eyes and long black locks, And voice like the music of rills.
He goes to the chase-but evil eyes
Are at watch in the thicker shades; For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize, The flower of the forest maids.
The boughs in the morning wind are stirred, And the woods their song renew,