The blood which, in my childhood, rushed Like mountain torrents in the isles Where earth with constant life is flushed, And everlasting summer smiles, Now struggles in its sluggish flow, Like streams through Greenland’s bank of snow; Yet not all frozen,—if a beam Of light return from earlier years, If, from the spell of childhood’s dream, Triumphant over grief and tears, One bright, enchanting moment come, Like a lost, loved one welcomed home, The loosened current, warmed anew, Hurries along these frigid veins, As the hot Geyser rushes through The frozen banks on Iceland’s plains; And, all forgetful of my years, I yield again to child-like tears. Go, tell me not of loving earth; Tell me not life is fraught with joy; Say not this world has given birth To happiness without alloy; Too subtle is the spirit’s bliss To stay in atmosphere like this. There’s not a pang that rends the heart, In the long catalogue of woe, Of which I have not shared a part, In this, my pilgrimage below; I’ve quaffed at sorrow’s bitter cup, And drank its turbid waters up. And now I wish to lay me down, My mother, Earth, upon thy breast, When the green turf, with flowers o’ergrown, Shall flourish o’er my couch of rest; Gladly would I resign this trust, And dust consign to native dust. Why should I not? my former friends Have fallen round me, one by one, As fall the leaves when autumn sends His breezes through the forests dun. The grave has garnered all my love, Why, why remain its walls above?— Here do I stand alone—alone— As stands the stern and sturdy oak, When all its forest-frères are gone, Before the woodman’s fatal stroke, Or wintry tempest sweeping by, With the leagued legions of the sky. Then speed thou home, my wearied soul, On angel-pinions; bend thine eye, Unmoved, upon the glorious goal That waits thy coming in the sky. Ho, for the waters which arise At Zion’s foot, in Paradise! There shall thou lift thy spirit-tongue, In praises, that thy bonds are riven, As, by the fountain, Miriam sung Hosannahs to the God of Heaven, When Israel, freed from Pharoah’s hand, Departed for the promised land. * * * * * MAY-DAY. A RHAPSODY BY JEREMY SHORT, ESQ.