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Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun,
And the brooks of morning run.
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow, But in mine is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of the snow."
Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
Worse than the dark before.
What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food, Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,
That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.
Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
In your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks ?
Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.
THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD.
Pleasant visions, as of old ! Though the house by winds be shaken,
Safe 'I keep this room of gold !
Ah! no longer wizard Fancy
Builds its castles in the air, Luring me by necromancy
Up the never-ending stair.
But, instead, it builds me bridges
Over many a dark ravine, Where beneath the gusty ridges
Cataracts dash and roar unseen.
And I cross them, little heeding
Blast of wind or torrent's roar, As I follow the receding
Footsteps that have gone before.
Naught avails the imploring gesture,
Naught' avails the cry of pain ! When I touch the flying vesture,
’T is the gray robe of the rain.
Baffled I return, and, leaning
O’er the parapets of cloud, Watch the mist that intervening
Wraps the valley in its shroud.
And the sounds of life ascending
Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, Murmur of bells and voices blending
With the rush of waters near.
Well I know what there lies hidden,
Every tower and town and farm,
Reassumes its vanished charm.
Well I know the secret places,
And the nests in hedge and tree;
In what hearts a thought of me.
Through the mist and darkness sinking,
Blown by wind and beaten by shower,
Down I toss this Alpine flower.
upon the headland-height, and listened To the incessant sobbing of the sea
In caverns under me, And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened, Until the rolling meadows of amethyst
Melted away in mist.
Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started;
Seemed peopled with the shapes
On faces seen in dreams.
A moment only, and the light and glory
Stood lonely as before ;
Their petals of pale red.
There was an old belief that in the embers
And cunning alchemists
Without the lost perfume.
Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science
The rose of youth restore ?
Renew this phantom-flower ?
“O, give me back,” I cried, “the vanished splendors,
When the swift stream of life
Into the unknown deep!”
And the sea answered, with a lamentation,
“ Alas! thy youth is dead !
It lies forever cold !”
Then said I, “From its consecrated cerements
Only to give me pain;
And turns to weep no more.”
Into what land of harvests, what plantations
Of sunsets burning low;
Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellations
This world and the unseen!
Amid what friendly greetings and caresses,
What bowers of rest divine;
The bearing of what cross
I do not know; nor will I vainly question
The story still untold,
Until - The End ” I read.
FROM THE SPANISH.
AUGH of the mountain !- lyre of bird and tree !
The soul of April, unto whom are born