Are thy lashes wet with tears? Canst thou never more be gay? Chase afar these foolish fears— I will kiss thy dread away! We are parted—’till we meet, Time shall pass how wearily! Yet I’ll make each hour more fleet By thoughts of thee! In the solitude of night, In the tumult of the day, By the gloamin’ fire’s light, In the mazy dance and gay, By the silver-sounding streams, Underneath the rustling tree, In my waking, or in dreams, I’ll think of thee! When in ev’ry flower cup Fairies dance the night away, When the queenly moon is up, Moving on her stately way, When the stars upon the shore Silence e’en the sounding sea— Ever till we part no more, I’ll think of thee! A. A. I. * * * * * THE FRESHET. A LEGEND OF THE DELAWARE. BY ALFRED B. STREET. March hath unlocked stern Winter’s chain, Nature is wrapp’d in misty shrouds, And ceaselessly the drenching rain Drips from the gray sky-mantling clouds; The deep snows melt, and swelling rills Pour through each hollow of the hills; The river from its rest hath risen, And bounded from its shattered prison; The huge ice-fragments onward dash With grinding roar and splintering crash; Swift leap the floods upon their way, Like war-steeds thundering on their path, With hoofs of waves and manes of spray Restrainless in their mighty wrath. Wild mountains stretch in towering pride Along the river’s either side; Leaving between it and their walls Narrow and level intervals. When Summer glows, how sweet and bright The landscape smiles upon the sight! Here, the deep golden wheat-fields vie With the rich carpets of the rye, The buckwheat’s snowy mantles, there, Shed honied fragrance on the air; In long straight ranks, the maize uprears Its silken plumes and pennon’d spears, The yellow melon, underneath, Plump, ripening, in its viny wreath: Here, the thick rows of new-mown grass, There, the potato-plant’s green mass; All framed by woods—each limit shown By zigzag rail, or wall of stone; Contrasting here, within the shade, The axe a space hath open laid Cumber’d with trees hurl’d blended down, Their verdure chang’d to wither’d brown; There, the soil ashes-strew’d, and black, Shows the red flame’s devouring track; The fire-weed shooting thick where stood The leafy monarchs of the wood: A scene peculiar to one land Which Freedom with her magic wand Hath touch’d, to clothe with bloom, and bless With peace, and joy, and plenteousness.