SATURDAY AFTERNOON. BY N. P. WILLIS. I LOVE to look on a scene like this, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, I have walked the world for fourscore years; And they say that I am old, And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, And my years are well nigh told. It is very true; it is very true; I'm old, and "I 'bide my time :" But my heart will leap at a scene like this Play on, play on; I am with you there, In the midst of your merry ring; I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, And rush of the breathless swing. I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall. I am willing to die when my time shall come, 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, To see the young so gay. 245 THE CHINA TREE. BY R. M. BIRD. THOUGH the blossoms be ripe on the China tree, Though the flower of the orange be fair to see,— And the pomegranate's blush, and the humming-bird's wing, Throw the charms of elysium, O South, on thy spring; It is dearer to me to remember the North, Where scarce the green leaf yet comes timidly forth,- If the golden-hued oriole sing from the tide, Oh, the blue bird is sweeter by Delaware's side: Oh, the pebble-strown beaches, that echo all day To the kill-deer's shrill shriek and the bank-swallow's lay, And at eve, when the harvest moon mellows the shade, To the sigh of the lover, the laugh of the maid! China tree! though thy blossoms, in chaplets, may bond The brows of the brave, and the necks of the fond, THE CHINA TREE. Never think that fit garlands our oak cannot form, 247 With the floods roaring wildly, the fields lying bare, And the hearts,—oh, the hearts,—that make paradise there! |