Hath yearned to leave the bootless strife afar, And find beneath this oak a quiet grave, Where the rough echo of the world's loud jar, Yields to the music of the mellow wave! And now again I stand this stream beside; Again I hear the silver ripples flow-- I mark the whispers murmuring o'er the tide, And the light bubbles trembling as they go. But oh! the magic-spell that lingered here, In boyhood's golden age, my heart to bless, With the bright waves that rippled then so clear, Is lost in ocean's dull forgetfulness. Gone are the visions of that glorious time-- Gone are the glancing birds I loved so well, Nor will they wake again their silver chime, From the deep tomb of night in which they dwell! And if perchance some fleeting memories steal, Like far-off echoes to my dreaming ear, Away, ungrasped, the cheating visions wheel, As spectres start upon the wing of fear. Alas! the glorious sun, which then was high, Touching each common thing with rosy light, Is darkly banished from the lowering sky-- And life's dull onward pathway lies, in night. Yes--I am changed--and this gray gnarled form, Its leaves all scattered by the rending blast, Is but an image of my heart;--the storm-- The storm of life, doth make us such at last! Farewell, old oak! I leave thee to the wind, And go to struggle with the chafing tide-- Soon to the dust thy form shall be resigned, And I would sleep thy crumbling limbs beside. Thy memory will pass; thy sheltering shade, Will weave no more its tissue o'er the sod; And all thy leaves, ungathered in the glade, Shall, by the reckless hoof of time, be trod. My cherished hopes, like shadows and like leaves, Name, fame, and fortune--each shall pass away; And all that castle-building fancy weaves, Shall sleep, unthinking, as the drowsy clay. But from thy root another tree shall bloom-- With living leaves its tossing boughs shall rise; And the winged spirit--bursting from the tomb,-- Oh, shall it spring to light beyond these skies? To a Wild Violet, in March. [Illustration: To a Wild Violet, in March] My pretty flower, How cam'st thou here? Around thee all Is sad and sere,-- The brown leaves tell Of winter's breath, And all but thou Of doom and death. The naked forest Shivering sighs,-- On yonder hill The snow-wreath lies, And all is bleak-- Then say, sweet flower, Whence cam'st thou here In such an hour? No tree unfolds its timid bud-- Chill pours the hill-side's lurid flood-- The tuneless forest all is dumb-- Whence then, fair violet, didst thou come?