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were brightening around her, he was growing fainter and smaller every evening, and now, he was no more. Of the rest, planets, and stars, all were unimpaired in their light, and the former only slightly varied in their positions. The whole multitude, wiser by experience, and better for their knowledge, were humble, contented, and grateful, each for his lot, whether splendid or obscure.
Next evening, to the joy and astonishment of all, the moon, with a new crescent, was descried in the west; and instantly, from every quarter of the heavens, she was congratulated on her happy resurrection. Just as she went down, while her bow was yet recumbent in the dark purple horizon, it is said that an angel appeared, standing between her horns. Turning his head, his eye glanced rapidly over the universe; the sun far sunk behind him, the moon under his feet, the earth spread in prospect before him, and the firmament all glittering with constellations above. He paused a moment, and then in that tongue, wherein, at the accomplishment of creation, « the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy,” he thus broke forth : “ Great and marvelous are thy works, Lord God Almighty! In wisdom hast thou made them all. Who would not fear thee, O Lord, and glorify thy name, for thou only art holy !” He ceased; and from that hour there has been harmony in heaven.
Speak ye, who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The merry children, when they see
They are soonest with her in the woods,
The little brooks run on in light,
The aged man is in the field;
She comes with more than present good,
BREATHINGS OF SPRING. What wak’st thou, Spring ? Sweet voices in the woods,
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute; Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes,
The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute,
Even as our hearts may be.
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade,
When the south wind hath pierced the whispery shade, And happy murmurs, running through the grass,
Tell that thy footsteps pass.
Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep!
Makes melody, and in the forests deep,
Their windings to the day.
Thou from the dust hast set that glory free,
And penciling the wood-anemone :
Glows with mute poesy.
The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs ?
Restorer of forgotten harmonies !
What wak'st thou in the heart ?
Wherefore it should be thus; yet, roused by thee, What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell,
Gush for the faces we no more may see! How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone,
By voices that are gone ! Looks of familiar love, that never more,
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet,
Past words of welcome to our household door,
And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet;
Why, why reviy'st thou these ?
Vain longings for the dead! Why come they back
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms?
Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ?
BE A UTY OF FLOWERS. Of all the minor creations of God, flowers seem to be most. completely the effusions of his love of beauty, grace, and joy. Of all the natural objects which surround us, they are the least connected with our absolute necessities. Vegetation might proceed, the earth might be clothed with a sober green; and all the processes of fructification might be perfected, without being attended by the glory with which the flower is crowned ; but beauty and fragrance are poured abroad over the earth in blossoms of endless varieties, radiant evidences of the boundless benevolence of the Deity. They are made solely to gladden the heart of man, for a light to his eyes, for a living inspiration of grace to his spirit, for a perpetual admiration. And, accordingly, they seize on our affections the first moment that we behold them.
With what eagerness do very infants grasp at flowers! As they become older they would live forever among them. They bound about in the flowery meadows like young fawns ; they gather all they come near; they collect heaps; they sit among them, and sort them, and sing over them, and caress them, till they perish in their grasp. We see them coming wearily into the towns and villages, loaded with posies half as large as themselves. We trace them in shady lanes, in the grass of far-off fields, by the treasures they have gathered and have left behind, lured on by others still brighter.
As they grow up to mature years, they assume, in their eyes,