But still they steal the record,
And bear it far away;

Their mission-flight by day or night
No magic power can stay.

And as we spend each minute

That God to us hath given,

The deeds are known before His throne,
The tale is told in heaven.

These bee-like Hours we see not,
Nor hear their noiseless wings;
We only feel, too oft, when flown,
That they have left their stings.

So, teach me, Heavenly Father,
To meet each flying Hour,
That as they go they may not show
My heart a poison-flower!

So, when death brings its shadows,
The Hours that linger last
Shall bear my hopes on angel-wings,
Unfetter'd by the past.

HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN.

Born at Boston, Mass: 1813—died 1871.

TO AN ELM.

BRAVELY thy old arms fling

Their countless pennons to the fields of air,
And, like a sylvan king,

Their panoply of green still proudly wear.

As some rude tower of old,

Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form, With limbs of giant mould,

To battle sternly with the winter storm.

In Nature's mighty fane,

Thou art the noblest arch beneath the sky;
How long the pilgrim train

That with a benison have pass'd thee by!

Lone patriarch of the wood!
Like a true spirit thou dost freely rise,
Of fresh and dauntless mood,
Spreading thy branches to the open skies.

The locust knows thee well;

And when the summer-days his notes prolong, Hid in some leafy cell,

Pours from thy world of green his drowsy song.

Oft, on a morn in spring,

The yellow-bird will seek thy waving spray,
And there securely swing,

To whet his beak, and pour his blithesome lay.

How bursts thy monarch wail,

When sleeps the pulse of Nature's buoyant life, And, bared to meet the gale,

Wave thy old branches, eager for the strife!

The sunset often weaves

Upon thy crest a wreath of splendour rare,
While the fresh-murmuring leaves
Fill with cool sound the evening's sultry air.

Sacred thy roof of green

To rustic dance and childhood's gambols free! Gay youth and age serene

Turn with familiar gladness unto thee.

O, hither should we roam,
To hear Truth's herald in the lofty shade;
Beneath thy emerald dome

Might Freedom's champion fitly draw his blade.

With blessings at thy feet,
Falls the worn peasant to his noontide rest;

Thy verdant, calm retreat

Inspires the sad and soothes the troubled breast.

When, at the twilight hour,

Plays through thy tressil crown the sun's last gleam, Under thy ancient bower

The schoolboy comes to sport, the bard to dream.

And when the moonbeams fall Through thy broad canopy upon the grass, Making a fairy hall,

As o'er the sward the flitting shadows pass,

Then lovers haste to thee,

With hearts that tremble like that shifting light,
To them, O, brave old tree!
Thou art joy's shrine-a temple of delight.

LUCY HOOPER.

Born at Newburyport, Mass: 1816-died 1841.

DEATH AND LIFE.

Nor unto thee, oh! pale and radiant Death!
Not unto thee, though every hope be past,
Though Life's first, sweetest stars may shine no more,
Nor Earth again one cherish'd dream restore,

Or from the bright urn of the future cast

Aught, aught of joy on me:

Yet unto thee, oh! monarch robed and crown'd,
And beautiful in all thy sad array!

I bring no incense. Though the heart be chill,
And to the eyes, that tears alone may fill,

Shines not as once the wonted light of day,
Still, still upon another shrine my vows

Shall all be duly paid; and though thy voice
Is full of music to the pining heart,

And woos one to that pillow of calm rest,
Where all Life's dull and restless thoughts depart,
Still, not to thee, oh Death!

I pay my vows. Though now to me thy brow
Seems crown'd with roses of the summer prime
And to the aching sense thy voice would be,
Oh Death! oh Death! of softest melody,
And gentle ministries alone were thine,
Still I implore thee not.

But thou, oh Life! oh Life! the searching test
Of the weak heart! to thee, to thee I bow;
And if the fire upon the altar shrine
Descend and scathe each glowing hope of mine,
Still may my heart as now

Turn not from that dread test.

But let me pay my vows to thee, oh Life!
And let me hope that from that glowing fire
There yet may be redeem'd a gold more pure
And bright, and eagle thoughts to mount and soar
Their flight the higher,

Released from earthly hope, or earthly fear.

This, this, oh Life! be mine.

Let others strive thy glowing wreaths to bind, Let others seek thy false and dazzling gleams,— For me their light went out on early streams, And faded were thy roses in my grasp,

No more, no more to bloom.

Yet as the stars, the holy stars of night,
Shine out when all is dark,

So would I, cheer'd by hopes more purely bright,
Tread still the thorny path whose close is light,
If but at last the toss'd and weary barque
Gain the sure haven of her final rest.

EPES SARGENT.*

Born at Gloucester, Mass: 1816—

SUMMER IN THE HEART.

THE cold blast at the casement beats,
The window-panes are white,

The snow whirls through the empty streets,-
It is a dreary night!

Sit down, old friend; the wine-cups wait
Fill to o'erflowing! fill!
Though winter howleth at the gate,

In our hearts 'tis summer still!

For we full many summer joys
And greenwood sports have shared,
When, free and ever-roving boys,

The rocks, the streams we dared!
And, as I look upon thy face,—
Back, back o'er years of ill,-
My heart flies to that happy place,
Where it is summer still!

Yes! though, like sere leaves on the ground

Our early hopes are strown,

And cherish'd flowers lie dead around,

And singing birds are flown,-
The verdure is not faded quite,
Not mute all tones that thrill,
For seeing, hearing thee to-night,
In my heart 'tis summer still!

Fill up the olden times come back
With light and life once more:
We scan the future's sunny track,
From youth's enchanted shore:

The lost return. Through fields of bloom
We wander at our will;

Gone is the winter's angry gloom:

In our hearts 'tis summer still!

*See Note 18.

L