WHEN spring, to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again; The murdered traveler’s bones were found, Far down a narrow glen. The fragrant birch, above him, hung Her tassels in the sky; And many a vernal blossom sprung, And nodded careless by. The red bird warbled, as he wrought His hanging nest o’erhead; And fearless, near the fatal spot, Her young the partridge led. But there was weeping far away, And gentle eyes, for him, With watching many an anxious day, Were sorrowful and dim. They little knew, who loved him so, The fearful death he met, When shouting o’er the desert snow, Unarmed and hard beset; Nor how, when round the frosty pole, The northern dawn was red, The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole To banquet on the dead; Nor how, when strangers found his bones, They dressed the hasty bier, And marked his grave with nameless stones, Unmoistened by a tear. But long they looked, and feared, and wept, Within his distant home; And dreamed, and started as they slept, For joy that he was come. Long, long they looked――but never spied His welcome step again. Nor knew the fearful death he died Far down that narrow glen. * * * * * THE BATTLEFIELD. Soon after the following poem was written, an English critic, referring to the stanza ♦beginning――“Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,”――said: “Mr. Bryant has certainly a rare merit for having written a stanza which will bear comparison with any four lines as one of the noblest in the English language. The thought is complete, the expression perfect. A poem of a dozen such verses would be like a row of pearls, each beyond a king’s ransom.” ♦ ‘begining’ replaced with ‘beginning’ ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encounter’d in the battle-cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget How gush’d the life-blood of her brave,―― Gush’d, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save. Now all is calm, and fresh, and still, Alone the chirp of flitting bird, And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine, are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouth’d gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry: Oh, be it never heard again! Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life. A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weapon’d throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.