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Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the season's dawn;

Or where, like those strange semblances we find

That age to childhood bind,

The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn,

The brown of Autumn corn.

As yet the turf is dark, although you know

That, not a span below,

A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,

And soon will burst their tomb.

Already, here and there, on frailest stems

Appear some azure gems,

Small as might deck, upon a gala day,

The forehead of a fay.

In gardens you may see, amid the dearth,

The crocus breaking earth ;

And near the snowdrop's tender white and green,
The violet in its screen.

But many gleams and shadows needs must pass
Along the budding grass,

And weeks go by, before the enamored South

Shall kiss the rose's mouth.

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn

In the sweet airs of morn;

One almost looks to see the very street

Grow purple at his feet.

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by,

And brings, you know not why,

A feeling as when eager crowds await

Before a palace gate

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, If from a beech's heart

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say— "Behold me! I am May!"

Ah, who would couple thoughts of war and crime With such a blessed time!

Who in the west-wind's aromatic breath

Could hear the call of Death!

Yet not more surely shall the Spring awake

The voice of wood and brake,

Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms A million men to arms.

There shall be deeper hues upon her plains

Than all her sunlight rains,

And every gladdening influence around

Can summon from the ground.

Oh! standing on this desecrated mould,
Methinks that I behold,

Lifting her bloody daisies up to God,
Spring, kneeling on the sod,

And calling with the voice of all her rills
Upon the ancient hills

To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves

Who turn her meads to graves.

HENRY TIMROD.

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

THE poplar drops beside the way Its tasselled plumes of silver gray; The chestnut points its great brown buds, impatient for the laggard May.

The honeysuckles lace the wall;
The hyacinths grow fair and tall ;

And mellow sun and pleasant wind and odorous bees are over all.

Down-looking in this snow-white bud, How distant seems the war's red flood! How far remote the streaming wounds, the sickening scent of human blood!

For Nature does not recognize

This strife that rends the earth and skies; No war-dreams vex the winter sleep of cloverheads and daisy-eyes.

She holds her even way the same,
Though navies sink or cities flame;

A snow-drop is a snow-drop still, despite the Nation's joy or shame.

When blood her grassy altar wets,
She sends the pitying violets

To heal the outrage with their bloom, and cover it with soft regrets.

O crocuses with rain-wet eyes,
O tender-lipped anemones,

What do you know of agony, and death, and bloodwon victories?

No shudder breaks your sunshine trance, Though near you rolls, with slow advance, Clouding your shining leaves with dust, the anguishladen ambulance.

Yonder a white encampment hums;
The clash of martial music comes;

And now your startled stems are all a-tremble with the jar of drums.

Whether it lessen or increase,

Or whether trumpets shout or cease,

Still deep within your tranquil hearts the happy bees are humming “Peace !”

O flowers! the soul that faints or grieves New comfort from your lips receives; Sweet confidence and patient faith are hidden in your healing leaves.

Help us to trust, still on and on,

That this dark night will soon be gone, And that these battle-stains are but the blood-red trouble of the dawn

Dawn of a broader, whiter day

Than ever blessed us with its ray

A dawn beneath whose purer light all guilt and wrong shall fade away.

Then shall our nation break its bands,
And, silencing the envious lands,

Stand in the searching light unshamed, with spotless robe and clean white hands.

ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

AT PORT ROYAL.

[1862.]

THE tent-lights glimmer on the land,
The ship-lights on the sea;

The night-wind smooths with drifting sand
Our track on lone Tybee.

At last our grating keels outslide,

Our good boats forward swing;

And while we ride the land-locked tide,

Our negroes row and sing.

For dear the bondman holds his gifts

Of music and of song:

The gold that kindly Nature sifts
Among his sands of wrong;

The power to make his toiling days
And poor home-comforts please;
The quaint relief of mirth that plays
With sorrow's minor keys.

Another glow than sunset's fire
Has filled the West with light,
Where field and garner, barn and byre,
Are blazing through the night.

The land is wild with fear and hate,
The rout runs mad and fast;
From hand to hand, from gate to gate,
The flaming brand is passed.

The lurid glow falls strong across
Dark faces broad with smiles:
Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss
That fire yon blazing piles.

With oar-strokes timing to their song,
They weave in simple lays
The pathos of remembered wrong,
The hope of better days,—

The triumph-note that Miriam sung,
The joy of uncaged birds:
Softening with Afric's mellow tongue
Their broken Saxon words.

SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN.

Oh, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come To set de people free;

An' massa tink it day ob doom,

An' we ob jubilee.

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