The clouds are at play in the azure space,

And their shadows at play on the bright

green vale,

And here they stretch to the frolic chase,
And there they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit and a smile on the

flower,

And a laugh from the brook that runs to the

sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles;

Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away,

THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR.

GATHER him to his grave again,
And solemnly and softly lay,
Beneath the verdure of the plain,

The warrior's scattered bones away.

Pay the deep reverence, taught of old,
The homage of man's heart to death;
Nor dare to trifle with the mould

Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath.

The soul hath quickened every part—
That remnant of a martial brow,

Those ribs that held the mighty heart,
That strong arm-strong no longer now.
Spare them, each mouldering relic spare,
Of God's own image; let them rest,
Till not a trace shall speak of where
The awful likeness was impressed.

For he was fresher from the hand
That formed of earth the human face,

And to the elements did stand

In nearer kindred than our race.

In many a flood to madness tossed,
In many a storm has been his path;
He hid him not from heat or frost,

But met them, and defied their wrath.

Then they were kind-the forests here,
Rivers, and stiller waters, paid

A tribute to the net and spear

Of the red ruler of the shade.

Fruits on the woodland branches lay,

Roots in the shaded soil below,

The stars looked forth to teach his way, The still earth warned him of the foe.

A noble race! but they are gone,
With their old forests wide and deep,
And we have built our homes upon

Fields where their generations sleep. Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, Upon their fields our harvest waves, Our lovers woo beneath their moon

Then let us spare at least their

graves !

MIDSUMMER.

A SONNET.

A POWER is on the earth and in the air,
From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid,
And shelters him in nooks of deepest shade,
From the hot steam and from the fiery glare.
Look forth upon the earth-her thousand plants

Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze; The herd beside the shaded fountain pants; For life is driven from all the landscape brown ;