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N. P. WILLIS.
LOVE to look on a scene like this,
And persuade myself that I am not old,
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And it makes his pulses fly,
To catch the thrill of a happy voice,
And the light of a pleasant eye.
I have walked the world for four score years;
And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
It is very true; it is very true;
I'm old, and "I 'bide my time;"
Play on, play on; I am with you there,
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go;
For the world, at best, is a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low:
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
THE ALPINE FLOWERS.
MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.
["This piece is, perhaps, the finest of Mrs. Sigourney's poetry. It is in some respects so sublime, that it forcibly reminds us of Coleridge's Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouny."George B. Cheever's Poets of America, p. 309.]
EEK dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs!
On Mercy's missions trust your timid germ
Or, breathing on the callous icicles,
And marks ye in your placid loveliness
Fearless, yet frail-and, clasping his chill hands,
It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word; And gentle winds, and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear. Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leaf a browner hue, And in the heaven that clear obscure, So sftly dark, and darkly pure, Which follows the decline of day, As twilight melts beneath the moon away.