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184

BANKS OF THE HUDSON.

Even love, long tried and cherished long,
Becomes more tender and more strong,
At thought of that insatiate grave
From which its yearnings cannot save.

River! in this still hour thou hast

Too much of heaven on earth to last;
Nor long may thy still waters lie,
An image of the glorious sky.
Thy fate and mine are not repose,
And ere another evening close,
Thou to thy tides shalt turn again,
And I to seek the crowd of men.

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THE WEST WIND.

BENEATH the forest's skirts I rest,
Whose branching pines rise dark and high,
And hear the breezes of the West
Among the threaded foliage sigh.

Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of wo?
Is not thy home among the flowers?
Do not the bright June roses blow,

To meet thy kiss at morning hours?

And lo! thy glorious realm outspread-
Yon stretching valleys, green and gay,
free hill-tops, o'er whose head
The loose white clouds are borne away.

And

yon

And there the full broad river runs,

And many a fount wells fresh and sweet, To cool thee when the mid-day suns

Have made thee faint beneath their heat.

Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love;
Spirit of the new wakened year!
The sun in his blue realm above

Smooths a bright path when thou art here.

186

THE WEST WIND.

In lawns the murmuring bee is heard,
The wooing ring-dove in the shade;
On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird
Takes wing, half happy, half afraid.

Ah! thou art like our wayward race ;-
When not a shade of pain or ill
Dims the bright smile of Nature's face,

Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur still.

TO A MUSQUITO.

FAIR insect! that, with threadlike legs spread out,
And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing,
Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about,

In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing,.
And tell how little our large veins should bleed,
Would we but yield them to thy bitter need.

Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse,

Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint,

Thou gettest many`a brush, and many a curse,
For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint :
Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,
Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could.

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,
Has not the honour of so proud a birth,
Thou com❜st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green,
The offspring of the gods, though born on earth;

For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she
The ocean nymph that nursed thy infancy.

Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung,

And when, at length, thy gauzy wings grew strong, Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung,

Rose in the sky and bore thee soft along :

188

TO A MUSQUITO.

The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way,
And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.

And calm, afar, the city spires arose,—

Thence didst thou hear the distant hum of men, And as its grateful odours met thy nose,

Didst seem to smell thy native marsh again; Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.

At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway—
Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed
By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray

Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist;
And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin,
Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

Oh, these were sights to touch an anchorite!
What! do I hear thy slender voice complain?
Thou wailest, when I talk of beauty's light,
As if it brought the memory of pain:
Thou art a wayward being-well-come near,

And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.

What say'st thou-slanderer!-rouge makes thee sick?

And China bloom at best is sorry

food?

And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick,

Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood? Go! 'twas a just reward that met thy crime

But shun the sacrilege another time.

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