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But finer days are coming yet,
With scenes more sweet to charm ;
Bright strangers to a storm :
Each morning's glory cheer,
And loses all her fear.
In wanton gambols, like a child,
She tends her early toils,
That blossom while she smiles :
She races with the hours ;
And fills her lap with flowers.
The first fair cowslip finds, Whose tufted flowers, on slender stalks
Keep nodding to the winds; And though the thorns withhold the may,
Their shades the violets bring, Which children stoop for in their play,
As tokens of the spring. Those joys which childhood calls its own,
Would they were kin to men ! Those treasures to the world unknown,
When known, are wither'd then!
To gild care's sable shroud,
As suns behind a cloud.
Since thou didst meet
eyes, As through the fields I flew, Whose distance, where they meet the skies,
Was all the world I knew;
Which fill'd all things with life,
Has swoon'd in Reason's strife.
The fairest child of spring ;
Comes some new joy to bring.
Grass greens the meadow-lands,
As dropt by fairy hands.
Begin and end with thee;
And bursting buds to see,
In burnish'd gold, distil
And drooping daffodil ?
And, warm with feelings strong,
And hums a waking song.
And thinks of summer come,
To tempt her steps from home.
Along each hedge and sprouting bush,
The singing birds are blest;
Prepare their mossy nest.
The young lambs find repose,
Like spots of ling'ring snows.
The cuckoo makes his choice;
First hear his cheering voice;
The nightingale belongs; And, singing to parting hours,
Keeps night awake with songs.
And cool his sultry wing;
Thy suns the martin bring.
Thy yearly mate to be:
Their birth belongs to thee.
And thy first glories view'd;
Their sunny steps pursued.
Like to a lovely eve,
And linger, loth to leave.
Though, at her birth, the northern gale
Come with its withering sigh,
Upon her bosom die;
And ends her reign in this,
As e'er gave birth to bliss.
NUMBER the grains of sand out-spread
Wherever Ocean's billows flow; Or count the bright stars over-head,
As these in their proud courses glow; Count all the tribes on earth that creep,
Or that expand the wing in air ; Number the hosts that in the deep,
Existence, and its pleasures share; Count the green leaves that in the breath
Of Spring's blythe gale are dancing fast; Or those, all faded, sere in death,
Which flit before the wint'ry blast ;Aye! number these, and myriads more,
All countless as they seem to be; There still remains an ampler store
Untold by, and unknown of Thee. Askest thou—“ Who, or what be they?"
Oh! think upon thy mortal doom ; And with anointed eye survey
The silent empire of the tomb !
Think of all those who erst have been
Living as thou art—even now; Looking upon life's busy scene
With glance as careless, light, as thou. All these, like thee, have liv'd and mov’d,
Have seen—what now thou look’st upon; Have fear'd, hop'd, hated, mourn’d, or lov’d,
And now from mortal sight are gone. Yet, though unseen of human eye,
Their relics slumber in the earth,
To them was giv'n with vital birth.
Earth but contains their mould'ring dust;
With thine must rise to meet the just. Thou know'st not but they hover near,
Witness of ev'ry sacred deed ; Which, shunning human eye or ear,
The spirits of the dead may heed. An awful thought it is to think,
The viewless dead out-number all Who, bound by life's connecting link,
Now share with us this earthly ball.
And one to wake a fearful thrill,