The south wind, on its joyous way, Came fraught with balmier breath, And frolic life, in thousand forms, Laugh'd at the conqueror Death! Sweet Echo, from the sparry caves, Re-tuned the shepherd's song; And bird and bee, in reckless glee, Pour'd melody along. The wind-stirr'd grove still prints its shade Upon the streamlet's breast, The red bird, on the chesnut bough, Re-builds its fairy nest; But through the thicket's leafy screen Fancy alone can trace The sparkling eye--the vermeil dye That mantled o'er thy face. Though since that hour, upon my path Are graven hopes and fears, And transient smiles, like April beams, Have gilded sorrow's tears; From those flushed hopes and feverish joys, My soul with rapture flies To the sweet grove, where faith and love Beamed from Emilia's eyes! Then woo me not to sculptured halls, Where pride and beauty throng; Far lovelier is my mountain-home, The wild-wood paths among; And though the hopes by boyhood nursed Have vanish'd like the dew, In Memory's light they bless my sight With charms for ever new. ELEGIAC LINES. BY THE LATE GEN. J. MORTON. While you, my friend, with tearful eye, These soft elegiac lines read o'er, And while you heave the tender sigh For lov'd Amanda now no more. This lesson from her tear-dew'd urn, Where conscious worth, where virtue bleeds, This lesson from Amanda learn,-- That death, nor worth, nor virtue heeds. That he alike his ruthless reign Does o'er each age, each sex, extend, That he ne'er heeds the lover's pain, Ne'er heeds the anguish of a friend. But in the height of Beauty's bloom, Each dear connexion of the heart, He points them to the gloomy tomb, He bids them--and they must depart. A SONG OF MAY. BY W. G. CLARK. The Spring's scented buds all around me are swelling-- There are songs in the stream--there is health in the gale; A sense of delight in each bosom is dwelling, As float the pure day-dreams o'er mountain and vale; The desolate reign of old winter is broken-- The verdure is fresh upon every tree; Of Nature's revival the charm,--and a token Of love, oh thou Spirit of Beauty! to thee. The sun looketh forth from the halls of the morning, And flushes the clouds that begirt his career; He welcomes the gladness and glory, returning To rest on the promise and hope of the year. He fills with rich light all the balm-breathing flowers-- He mounts to the zenith and laughs on the wave; He wakes into music the green forest-bowers, And gilds the gay plains which the broad rivers lave.