June’s butterfly, poised o’er his budded sweet, Is scarce so quiet-winged, betimes, as thou. Fail twilight’s thrill, and noonday’s wavy heat To kiss the fever from thy downcast brow. Ah, cease that vigil now! No west nor east thine unhoused vision keeps, Nor yet in heaven’s pale purpureal deeps Of worlds unnavigate, the dream of childhood sleeps. Flower of the joyous realm! thy rivers lave Their once proud valleys with forgetful moan; Thy kindred nod on many a trodden grave Among marmorean altars overthrown; For thou art left alone, Alone and dying, duped for love’s extreme: Hope not! thy Greece is over, as a dream; Stay not! but follow her down Time’s star-lucent stream. Less art thou of the earth than of the air, A frail outshaken splendor of the morn; Dimmest desire, the softest throb of prayer, Impels thee out of bondage to thy bourn: Ere thou art half forlorn, Farewell, farewell! for from thy golden stem Thou slippest like a wild enchanter’s gem. Swift are the garden-ghosts, and swiftest thou of them! Yea, speed thy freeborn life no doubts debar, O blossom-breath of that which was delight! In cooling whirl and undulation far The wind shall be thy bearer all the night Thro’ ether trembling-white: And I that clung with thee, as exiles may Whose too slight roots in every zephyr sway, Thy little soul salute along her homeward way! A PASSING SONG. WHERE thrums the bee and the honeysuckle hovers, Gather, golden lasses, to a roundelay; Dance, dance, yokefellows and lovers, Headlong down the garden, in the heart of May! Youth is slipping, dripping, pearl on pearl, away. Dance! what if last year Winnie’s cheek were rounder? Dance! tho’ that foot, Hal, were nimbler yesterday. Spread the full sail! for soon the ship must founder; Flaunt the red rose! soon the canker-worm has sway: Youth is slipping, dripping, pearl on pearl, away. See the dial shifting, hear the night-birds calling! Dance, you starry striplings! round the fountain-spray; With its mellow music out of sunshine falling, With its precious waters trickling into clay, Youth is slipping, dripping, pearl on pearl, away! IN TIME. HER little dumb child, for whom hope was none In any mind, she watched from sun to sun, Until three years her mighty faith had run; Then, in an agony of love, laid by The bright head from her breast, and went to lie ’Neath cedarn shadows, and the wintry sky, Not having, for her long desire and prayer, One sign from those shut lips, so rosy-fair It seemed all eloquence must nestle there.