In life’s rugged pathway, it is not the bright, Lovely blossoms of beauty that soonest depart, Far more do I grieve how soon sullies the light, The pure and untainted,—the bloom of the heart. Jackson, Md. 1841. * * * * * THE VOICE OF THE SPRING-TIME. BY MARTIN THAYER, JR. I come! I come! from the flowery South, With the voice of song and the shout of mirth; I have wandered far, I have wandered long, The valleys and hills of the South among; On woodland and glen, on mountain and moor, I have smiled as I smiled in days of yore; In emerald green I have decked them forth, And I turn again to my home in the North. I have roved afar through the storied East, And held on her hills my solemn feast; Through her cypress groves my voice was heard, In the music sweet of my fav’rite bird; Each plain I have clothed in sunlight warm, And slumbered in peace ’neath the desert palm; A garment of light to the sea I gave, And melody soft to each rushing wave. O’er the isles that gem the Ægean sea, I sported and flew with frolicksome glee; ’Round the ruins grey of the olden time, Bright garlands I hung of the creeping vine; Ah little they thought, who slumber beneath, That the warrior’s plume, and the victor’s wreath, Would fade like the blossoms that spring-time flings, ’Round the cotter’s grave, and the tombs of kings. O’er Marathon grey I walked in my pride, And smiled o’er the plain where the brave had died. On the field of Platæa I laid me down, ’Neath the shadows deep of old Cithæron’s frown. Full soundly I ween doth the Persian sleep, When the fir trees mourn, and the wild flowers creep; His requiem soft I sang as I lay, And dreamed of the glory won on that day. O’er Italia’s hills soft sunlight I poured, And her olive groves bloomed wherever I trod; A coronet green to the mountains I gave, And a robe of blue to each laughing wave; With verdure I clothed each mouldering pile, And laughed at the glory of man the while, For I thought how old Time had trampled in scorn, O’er the monuments proud of yesterday’s morn. I come! I come! with the song of the thrush, To wake with its sweetness the morning’s blush; To hang on the hawthorn my blossoms fair, And strew o’er each field my flowrets rare. The lark, he is up, on his heavenward flight, And the leaves are all gemm’d with diamonds bright; The hills are all bathed in purple and gold, And the bleating of flocks is heard from the fold.