NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. Well for thee, if thy lip could tell If every creature hath won thy love, From the creeping worm to the brooding dove- Hath plead with thy human heart unheard It will bring relief to thine aching brow, APRIL. A violet by a mossy stone, Is shining in the sky.-WORDSWORTH. I HAVE found violets! April hath come on, The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out Of April and hunt violets, when the rain And read it, when the fever of the world' TWILIGHT MUSINGS. Beautiful Evening! my bewildered brain But O majestic Eve, to thee I turn With heart enchanted, and undazzled eyes, Give me to breathe thy fragrance. Where the dews Clasp with their delicate arms the violet-bell. Give me to wander where the stream doth choose Its murmuring journey down the dim green dell With chary dainties. There would I bow Unto thy silver glories, as before The Persian worshipped-with a better vow, Then grant me thy communion. Swell my soul Of the high land I long for. I shall see The stirring of the myriad palm-boughs and gleam Of seraphs pinions. From the boundless throng Of the unnumbered holy, I shall hear Faintly, the choral anthem. So the song Of Ocean's surges falls upon the ear Of slumbering mariner-and so the bird That loves the sombre night, o'er the far wave is heard. |