Mary! cold the earth above thee, Cold and calm thy broken heart— Canst thou not to him who loved thee Something of thy peace impart? * * * * * I’M THINKING OF THEE! BY A. D. WILLIAMS. When the wild winds are howling, Now distant, now nigh, And the storm-king is growling, And clouds veil the sky; When the tempest is foaming, O’er ocean and lea, My thoughts are not roaming— I’m thinking of thee! When the mild, gentle showers Distil from the sky, And the bright blooming flowers Delight the glad eye; When the zephyrs are playing So blandly and free, My thoughts are not straying— I’m thinking of thee! When the beams of Aurora Are flooding the earth, With morn’s radiant glory And day’s jovial mirth; When the gay birds are singing In innocent glee, As their clear tones are ringing, I’m thinking of thee! When day’s fading sky-light Wanes slow from the west, And the shadows of twilight Steal soft o’er its breast; When Luna is shimmering O’er land and o’er sea— While the bright stars are glim’ring, I’m thinking of thee! Amid gay festive pleasure, Where mirth lends the song, There my heart has no treasure— Thou’rt not in the throng. But forgetting the present, Its wild merry glee, My communings are pleasant— I’m thinking of thee! * * * * * THE TULIP-TREE. BY BAYARD TAYLOR. Bounds my blood with long-forgotten fleetness To the chime of boyhood’s blithest tune, While I drink a life of brimming sweetness From the glory of the breezy June. Far above, the fields of ether brighten; Forest leaves are twinkling in their glee; And the daisy’s snows around me whiten, Drifted down the sloping lea! On the hills he standeth like a tower, Shining in the morn—the Tulip-Tree! On his rounded turrets beats the shower, While his emerald flags are flapping free: But when Summer in the fields is standing, And his blood is stirred with light, like wine, O’er his branches, all at once expanding, How the starry blossoms shine! Through the glossy leaves they burn, unfolded, Like the breast of some sweet oriole— Filled with fragrance, as a joy new moulded Into being by a poet’s soul! Violet hills, against the sunrise lying, See them kindle when the stars grow dim, And the breeze that drinks their odorous sighing Woos the lark’s rejoicing hymn.