Oh blessed harvest yet to be! Abide thou with the Love that keeps, In its warm bosom, tenderly, The Life which wakes and that which sleeps. The Love that leads the willing spheres Along the unending track of years, And watches o'er the sparrow's nest, Shall brood above thy winter rest, And raise thee from the dust, to hold Light whisperings with the winds of May, And fill thy spikes with living gold, From summer's yellow ray; Then, as thy garners give thee forth, On what glad errands shalt thou go, Wherever, o'er the waiting earth, Roads wind and rivers flow! The ancient East shall welcome thee To mighty marts beyond the sea, And they who dwell where palm-groves sound To summer winds the whole year round, Shall watch, in gladness, from the shore, The sails that bring thy glistening store. THE NEW AND THE OLD. New are the leaves on the oaken spray, New the blades of the silky grass; Flowers, that were buds but yesterday, Peep from the ground where'er I pass. These gay idlers, the butterflies, Broke, to-day, from their winter shroud; These light airs, that winnow the skies, Blow, just born, from the soft, white cloud. Gushing fresh in the little streams, What a prattle the waters make! Even the sun, with his tender beams, Seems as young as the flowers they wake. Children are wading, with cheerful cries, In the shoals of the sparkling brook; Laughing maidens, with soft, young eyes, Walk or sit in the shady nook. What am I doing, thus alone, In the glory of Nature here, Silver-haired, like a snow-flake thrown On the greens of the springing year? Only for brows unploughed by care, Eyes that glisten with hope and mirth, Cheeks unwrinkled, and unblanched hair, Shines this holiday of the earth. Under the grass, with the clammy clay, Lie in darkness the last year's flowers, Born of a light that has passed away, Dews long dried and forgotten showers. "Under the grass is the fitting home," So they whisper, "for such as thou, When the winter of life is come, Chilling the blood, and frosting the brow." THE CLOUD ON THE WAY.