Love lives beyond the tomb, And earth, which fades like dew! I love the fond, The faithful, and the true. MY EARLY HOME Here sparrows build upon the trees, And stockdove hides her nest; The leaves are winnowed by the breeze Into a calmer rest; The black-cap’s song was very sweet, That used the rose to kiss; It made the Paradise complete: My early home was this. The redbreast from the sweetbriar bush Dropt down to pick the worm; On the horse-chesnut sang the thrush, O’er the house where I was born; The moonlight, like a shower of pearls, Fell o’er this “bower of bliss,” And on the bench sat boys and girls: My early home was this. The old house stooped just like a cave, Thatched o’er with mosses green; Winter around the walls would rave, But all was calm within; The trees are here all green agen, Here bees the flowers still kiss, But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then: My early home was this. THE TELL-TALE FLOWERS And has the Spring’s all-glorious eye No lesson to the mind? The birds that cleave the golden sky-- Things to the earth resigned-- Wild flowers that dance to every wind-- Do they no memory leave behind? Aye, flowers! The very name of flowers, That bloom in wood and glen, Brings Spring to me in Winter’s hours, And childhood’s dreams again. The primrose on the woodland lea Was more than gold and lands to me. The violets by the woodland side Are thick as they could thrive; I’ve talked to them with childish pride As things that were alive: I find them now in my distress-- They seem as sweet, yet valueless. The cowslips on the meadow lea, How have I run for them! I looked with wild and childish glee Upon each golden gem: And when they bowed their heads so shy I laughed, and thought they danced for joy. And when a man, in early years, How sweet they used to come, And give me tales of smiles and tears, And thoughts more dear than home: Secrets which words would then reprove-- They told the names of early love. The primrose turned a babbling flower Within its sweet recess: I blushed to see its secret bower, And turned her name to bless. The violets said the eyes were blue: I loved, and did they tell me true? The cowslips, blooming everywhere, My heart’s own thoughts could steal: I nip’t them that they should not hear: They smiled, and would reveal; And o’er each meadow, right or wrong, They sing the name I’ve worshipped long.