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I KNOW a spot where poets fain would dwell,

To gather flowers and food for afterthought, As bees draw honey from the rose's cell,

To hive among the treasures they have wrought; And there a cottage from a sylvan screen, Sent up its curling smoke amidst the green.

Around that hermit-home of quietude,

The elm-trees whispered with the summer air, And nothing ever ventured to intrude,

But happy birds that caroled wildly there, Or honey-laden harvesters that flew Humming away to drink the morning dew.

Around the door the honey-suckle climbed,

And Multa-flora spread her countless roses, And never minstrel sang nor poet rhymed

Romantic scene where happiness reposes, Sweeter to sense than that enchanting dell, Where home-sick memory fondly loves to dwell.

Beneath a mountain's brow the cottage stood,

Hard by a shelving lake, whose pebbled bed Was skirted by the drapery of a wood,

That hung its festoon foliage over head, Where wild deer came at eve, unharmed, to drink, While moonlight threw their shadows from the brink.

The green earth heaved her giant waves around,

Where through the mountain vista, one vast height Towered heavenward without peer, his forehead bound

With gorgeous clouds, at times of changeful light, While far below, the lake in bridal rest, Slept with his glorious picture on her breast.



Joy fills the vale,
With joy ecstatic quivers every wing,
As floats thy note upon the genial gale,

Sweet bird of spring!

The violet
Awakens at thy song, and peers from out
Its fragrant nook, as if the season yet

Remained in doubt

While from the rock
The columbine its crimson bell suspends,
That careless vibrates, as its slender stalk

The zephyr bends.

Say! when the blast Of winter swept our whitened plains,—what clime, What sunnier realm thou charmedst, - and how was past

Thy joyous time?

• The song sparrow.

Did the green isles
Detain thee long ? or, ʼmid the palmy groves
Of the bright south, where liberty now smiles,

Didst sing thy loves?

0, well I know Why thou art here thus soon, and why the bowers So near the sun have lesser charms than now

Our land of flowers :

Thou art returned
On a glad errand,- to rebuild thy nest,
And fan anew the gentle fire that burned

Within thy breast

And thy wild strain, Poured on the gale, is love's transporting voiceThat, calling on the plumy choir again,

Bids them rejoice :

Nor calls alone
T'enjoy, but bids improve the fleeting hour-
Bids all that ever heard love's witching tone,

Or felt his power.

The poet too
It soft invokes to touch the trembling wire ;




Yet ah, how few its sounds shall list, how few

His song admire !

But thy sweet lay,
Thou darling of the spring! no ear disdains;
Thy sage instructress, nature, says “ Be gay!"

And prompts thy strains.

0, if I knew Like thee to sing, like thee the heart to fire, Youth should enchanted throng, and beauty sue

To hear my lyre.

Oft as the year
In gloom is wrapped, thy exile I shall mourn --
Oft as the spring returns, shall hail sincere

Thy glad return.

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