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Hark! in that primrose vale in the wood
In her loveliness lonely there.
Anemones, with their stems so frail
Like Anadyomene's form
Ere by earthly arms enfolded.
The incense around her stealing;
Its first glow of fervour revealing.
April the pure, the young,
The tender love of the year! The robing of nature in loveliness
The freshness of all that is dear! If time could but linger there !
Ah! those sweet sweet days, soon past ! Ere a shadow however tender
Was over love's pathway cast. There is nothing in life so sweet,
There is nothing so sweet so dear; There is naught in the after months
Like the primrose path of the year.
The rippling waves are flowing
Over the king cob grass ; The butterflies fluttering pass ;
Favonius softly blowing.
Redolent air of the Meadow-sweet plain !
A CLASSIC FRAGMENT.
“Do you ask whence it comes that I write of love 80 often ? whence comes it that my book reads 80 pleasantly? It is not Calliope inspires my strains nor Apollo."
PROPERTIUS. B. 2. Elegy 1.
As I passed out from under the pronaos of the temple, the moon was shining ; that same moon which in its tender infancy softly looked down upon us. Illusive moon! frosting the tall heads of the old cypresses and bathing the trellised vines with seeming coldness ; glistening among the tough leaves of the tortuous ivy, and rising like a flood up the space of the gestasio : how it threw strange forms across the avenue of planes, how it shone over the olive grove, and gleamed under the pomegranate trees; and how it seemed to sleep over the boxbordered systus.
Its light now dwells full upon the sacred laurels, laurels whose leaves find a voice at the near approach of fire, metamorphosis of the startled nymph, who
fled, affrighted, from the ardour of the ever youthful Apollo. Chaste Dian's light, upon the transformed Daphne ;-yet though the chill daughter of Peneus avoided the pursuit of her golden-haired adorer, still must she cease to flourish when his face is entirely turned away; a sunless spot to her is desolation, and in such an aspect the harsh breath of Aquilo scatters her shrinking leaves, untimely sere.
Ah! sweet Lymia, when that moonlight in its serene beauty streamed into thy dwelling; flooding the atrium and shining over the cool water of the impluvium ; how curiously it seemed to wander, searching among the statues of the cavum aedium and resting at the shaded entrances of the alae. The quaint cut yews in the viridarium, the pride of thy Topiarius, looked more and more strangely shaped as it paused behind them, and crept smiling into the triclinium, peeping after us, inquisitively, as we sat, where the glow from the fire-light only half revealed our shadowy forms.
The Athenian maidens made odorous their bordered chitons with the Median citrus, but the true perfume of the myrtle flower is in every fold of my loved one's drapery.
The seals of love, impressed upon the soul of thy beauty, need no other urn; once there they can never be erased—their imprint is indelible,—there they re main for ever, piously enshrined, as the sacred ashes of some loved one whose soul has passed away into the realms of the invisible.
Septem ante Kalendas Decembres. That day was ours, that thrice and four times happy day, when the waters of the Anio were turgid with the land floods, and the yellow Tiber rushed swiftly past its shores
with foaming haste; when the lofty tree tops were tossing their red leaves to the autumn sky, and carpeted our paths with a rustling footway of bright colors. Ever sacred be the memory of its eventide, no cold morning air had chilled our hopes, no scorching ray of garish noon had dazzled thy dove-like eyes : and the sweet repose of solemn evening came, breathing silence around us.
The glowing chariot of streaming haired Phoebus went down beyond the shadowings of the distant mountain peaks, amid a blaze of fervid glory,—deep waves of burning crimson and gleaming amber,-reefs of glistening ruby,-broken bars of jagged sapphire unevenly edged with flame,-purple banks and ridges, along which the sparkle of the topaz lingers,-delicate pencillings of intense vermillion; all animated by one ineffable flood of glorious living light: and between all these, glimpses here and there of a pale clear amethyst sky,--the atmosphere of another existence, openings for the mind to dwell upon, glimpses that lead the thoughts far, far away, in the direction of a glorious immortality. Think, dear one, what must be the glory of that future world, of which the goldenhaired Phoebus now only shows us the threshold !
MONTI OF MILAN.
A dream of joy-where the roses are blushing,
A dream of joy-on deep vioiet pillows
DOWN BY THE DARK RIVER.
Tacito amica silentia lunce.
Down by the dark river silently creeping
Into the valley of night;
The air in her sea of pale light.