XL. How like the balmy breathing of the spring, Is the unfolding of Love's happy morn! Then our nurst hopes, anticipating, bring The May-day breaking, that shall bear no thorn: The thorn must have its birth-day with the rose-- When one is blighted, still the other grows, And grows the keener, as the seared leaves fall, And rankles in the heart when the storm scatters all. XLI. Be blessings on thee, Lady of my love! As many blessings as thou did'st impart, When to my breast thou cam'st like a young dove, And made thy home in my all-happy heart. Like the loved picture of his buried maid, Which the sad lover keeps, and weeps the shade, So Memory, to my early feelings true, Preserves its passionate love in bidding hope adieu! XLII. No! "while there's life there's hope," at least, in love; Hope that the two shall not be always twain:-- Will it not find its home--that parted dove-- Though severed far o'er mountain and o'er main? Though night o'ertake it, though the tempests rise, Alike, through cloudy, and through smiling skies, Onward it hastens; and, with panting breast, Nestles at home at last, and loves the more its nest. XLIII. Built o'er the Indian's grave, the city, here, To all the pomp of civic pride is giv'n, While o'er the spot there falls no tribute-tear, Not e'en his kindred drop--the dew of Heav'n. How touching was the chieftain's homily! That none would mourn for him when he should die; Soon shall the race of their last man be run-- Then who will mourn for them? Alas! not one--not one! XLIV. They all have passed away, as thou must pass, Who now art wandering westward where they trod-- An atom in the mighty human mass, Who live and die. No more. The grave-green sod, Can but be made the greener o'er the best, A flattering epitaph may tell the rest-- While they who come, as come these onward waves, Forget who sleep below, and trample on their graves. XLV. Yet, who, that ever trod upon this shore, Since the rude red man left it to his tread, Thinks not of him, and marks not, o'er and o'er, The contrast of the living with the dead? There the tall forest falls--that Indian mound Will soon be levelled with the ploughed-up ground-- Where stands that village church, traditions hold, The war-whoop once rang loud o'er many a warrior cold.