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AFTER A TEMPEST.

The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past.
Lo, the clouds roll away-they break-they fly,

And, like the glorious light of summer, cast
O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky,
On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie.
K 3

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THE BURIAL-PLACE-A FRAGMENT.

EREWHILE, on England's pleasant shores, our sires
Left not their churchyards unadorned with shades
Or blossoms; and indulgent to the strong
And natural dread of man's last home, the grave,
Its frost and silence--they disposed around,
To sooth the melancholy spirit that dwelt
Too sadly on life's close, the forms and hues
Of vegetable beauty.-There the yew,
Green even amid the snows of winter, told
Of immortality, and gracefully

The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped;
And there the gadding woodbine crept about,
And there the ancient ivy. From the spot
Where the sweet maiden, in her blossoming years,
Cut off, was laid with streaming eyes, and hands
That trembled as they placed her there, the rose
Sprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better spoke
Her
graces, than the proudest monument.
And children set about their playmate's grave
On the infant's little bed,

The pansy.
Wet at its planting with maternal tears,
Emblem of early sweetness, early death,

THE BURIAL-PLACE.

Nestled the lowly primrose. Childless dames,
And maids that would not raise the reddened eye,
Orphans, from whose young lids the light of joy
Fled early,silent lovers, who had given

All that they lived for to the arms of earth,
Came often, o'er the recent graves to strew
Their offerings, rue, and rosemary, and flowers.
The pilgrim bands who passed the sea to keep
Their Sabbaths in the eye of God alone,
In his wide temple of the wilderness,

Brought not these simple customs of the heart
With them. It might be, while they laid their dead
By the vast solemn skirts of the old groves,

And the fresh virgin soil poured forth strange flowers
About their graves; and the familiar shades

Of their own native isle, and wonted blooms,
And herbs were wanting, which the pious hand
Might plant or scatter there, these gentle rites
Passed out of use. Now they are scarcely known,
And rarely in our borders may you meet
The tall larch, sighing in the burying-place,
Or willow, trailing low its boughs to hide
The gleaming marble. Naked rows of graves
And melancholy ranks of monuments

Are seen instead, where the coarse grass, between,
Shoots up its dull green spikes, and in the wind
Hisses, and the neglected bramble nigh,
Offers its berries to the schoolboy's hand,
In vain-they grow too near the dead.
Nature, rebuking the neglect of man,

Yet here,

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THE BURIAL-PLACE.

Plants often, by the ancient mossy stone,

The brier rose, and upon the broken turf

That clothes the fresher grave, the strawberry vine Sprinkles its swell with blossoms, and lays forth Her ruddy, pouting fruit.

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THE YELLOW VIOLET.

WHEN beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue-bird's warble know

The yellow violet's modest bell

Peeps from the last year's leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee in the watery mould,
And I have seen thee blossoming

Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view

Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,

When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

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