LINES TO A WITHERED LEAF SEEN ON A POET'S TABLE. POET's hand has placed thee there, Though no human pen has traced Not alone dim Autumn's blast Distant music of the Past Voices sweet of summer hours, MEMORY. SOON the waves so lightly bounding Cease to mourn the storm that's past. Soon is hushed the voice of gladness But the heart,—-how fond t'will treasure There still dwell the looks that vanish TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. BRIGHT image of the early years When glowed my cheek as red as thou, And life's dark throng of cares and fears Were swift-winged shadows o'er my sunny brow! Thou blushest from the painter's page, But Nature's hand in youth's green age The morning's blush, she made it thine, I see the hill's far-gazing head, I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and well-known tree, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee. O'er the dark rock the dashing brook, And, hastening to each flowery nook, Fair child of art! thy charms decay, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime; But on my heart thy cheek of bloom There shalt thou live and wake the glee And when, loved flower! I think of thee, 8 TO THE FOSSIL FLOWER. DARK fossil flower! I see thy leaves unrolled, Its Maker's sovereign voice; and laughing flowers Thou may'st have bloomed unseen, save by the stars That sang together o'er thy rosy birth, And came at eve to watch thy folded rest. None may have sought thee on thy fragrant home, Save light-voiced winds that round thy dwelling played, |