A MEDLEY. Shall I sing of little rills, That trickle down the yellow hills, Darting upwards to the sky The artless cunning of their eye- Up to the clouds that look so grey— Away, away, in the clear blue heaven, Far o'er the thin mist that beneath is driven Now they sink, and now they soar, Now poised upon the plumy oar- His heart beside the mountain rill. What if we have lost the creed, Which thought the brook a God indeed? Or a flood of passionate tears, Or imagined, in the lymph, Is sweeter in the lonely dell, Than the quaint fable of the wood-god's lay, Ah-never, never may the thought be mine, Which in the thunder, heard a voice of anger, And ruthless vengeance in the storm's loud clan gour, Which found in every whisper of the woods, In every moaning of the voiceful floods, A long record of perishable languish, Immortal echo of a mortal anguish. Nay-mine be still, The happy, happy faith That in deep silence hymning saith That every little rill, And every small bird, trilling joyfully Tells a sweet tale of hope, and love, and peace, Bidding to cease, The heart's sharp pangs, aye throbbing woefully. Or shall I sing of happy hours, Number'd by opening and by closing flowers? Of smiles, and sighs that give no pain, Blent with the whisper of the vine, And the pure sweetness of the jessamine: What is it those sighs confess? Idle are they, as I guess, And yet they tell, all is not well :- Then away to the meadows, where April's swift shadows Passing gleams of restless mirth— Still bequeath a blessing after— Bliss, if bliss below may be, Such themes I sang—and such I fain would sing, When the pure snow-drops couch beneath the snow, And tell it to the dilatory blast. Yet will I hail the sunbeam as it flies— THOUGHTS. Он, sacred Freedom! thou that art so fair, That wise men say thou wert embodied never; When Reason-that whate'er it is, must be- Made human choice an everlasting strife; Then every Passion, native to the hour, Yet some there are, and some that still have been, The fate that whirls around the restless wheel Some to the stars ascribe the inborn evil, Some to the Gods, and others to the devil, |