But, why should change with sadness dim Our eye, when thought can range Through time and space, and fly to him, Who is without a change? For he, who meted out the year, Will give another spring: He rolls at once the shining sphere, And makes the cricket sing. And when another autumn strips The summer leaves away, If cold and silent be the lips That breathed and moved to-day, The time I 've passed with nature's God Will cause no spirit sting, Though I 've adored him from the sod Whereon the crickets sing. CHILDHOOD'S DREAM. Give me back, give me back but my one infant dream, As it passed on the turf by my dear native stream, Where I slept from my play, while the wind tossed my hair, Till its ringlets, unbound, clasped the violets there. O return, fleeting time, the soft moments that flew By the calm sinking sun, and the fall of the dew, When, refreshing as light, and as dew to the flower O'er my young spirit came the blest dream of that hour! I remember the song of the bird, and the breeze With the perfumes it swept from the bloom of the trees, As my eyes gently closed; but the visions that stole Through my fancy's green bowers, come no more to my soul! They were sweet but to pass, as the odors that fled From the young flowers I crushed, while they pillowed my head; And like them, when they flew on the wings of the air, They are gone, and have left not a trace to tell where! They were clear as the sun in his mild, setting rays; They were pure as the stars, soon to kindle and blaze; But they 're gone! I have lost the dear dream of that sleep, As a bright planet drowned in the vast ether deep. Yet the face of my mother, through tears as she smiled, When she found, gently raised, and led home her lost child-- I shall see that loved face by time's stream evermore, Till I follow her home, where life's dreamings are o'er. THE FRUIT-TREE BLOSSOM. My flower, thou art as sweet to me. Thy form as full and fair-- As rich a fruit shall follow thee, As if thou hadst denied the bee The pure and precious gift, that he Wafts joyous through the air. The spices from thy bosom flow As freely round thee now, As if withheld an hour ago. Bestowing, thou canst still bestow; Though, whence thy gifts thou may'st not know, Or giving, tell me how.