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110    ANNA MARIA WELLS.

They, to the summer air
No longer prodigal, their sweet breath yield;
Vainly, to bind her hair,
The village maiden seeks them in the field.

The breeze, the gentle breeze
That wander'd like a frolic child at play,
Loitering 'mid blossom'd trees,
Trailing their stolen sweets along its way,
No more adventuresome,
Its whisper'd love is to the violet given;
The boisterous North has come,
And scared the sportive trifler back to heaven.

The brook, the limpid brook
The prattled of its coolness as it went
Forth from its rocky nook,
Leaping with joy to be no longer pent,-
Its pleasant song is hush'd;-
The sun no more looks down upon its play;-
Freely, where once it gush'd,
The mountain torrent drives its noisy way.

The hours, the youthful hours,
When in the cool shade we were wont to lie,
Idling with fresh cull'd flowers,
In dreams that ne'er could know reality;-
Fond hours, but half enjoy'd,
Like the sweet summer breeze they pass'd away,
And dear hopes were destroy'd,
Like buds that die before the noon of day.

Young life, young turbulent life,
If, like the stream, it take a wayward course,
'T is lost 'mid folly's strife,-
O'erwhelm'd, at length, by passion's curbless force.

ANNA MARIA WELLS    111

Nor deem youth's buoyant hours
For idle hopes or useless musings given:
Who dreams away his powers,
The reckless slumberer shall not wake to heaven.

TO THE WHIPPOORWILL.

The shades of eve are gathering slowly round,
And silence hangs o'er meadow, grove, and hill,
Save one lone voice, that, with continuous sound,
Calls through the deep'ning twilight-Whippoorwill.

Faintly is heard the whispering mountain breeze;
Faintly the rushing brook that turn'd the mill;
Hush'd is the song of birds-the hum of bees;-
The hour is all thine own, sad Whippoorwill!

No more the woodman's axe is heard to fall;
No more the ploughman sings with rustic skill;
As if earth's echoes woke no other call,
Again, and yet again, comes Whippoorwill.

Alas! enough! before, my heart was sad;
Sweet bird! thou mak'st it sadder, sadder still.
Enough of mourning has my spirit had;
I would not hear thee mourn, poor Whippoorwill.

Thoughts of my distant home upon me press,
And thronging doubts, and fears of coming ill;
My lone heart feels a deeper loneliness,
Touch'd with that plaintive burthen-Whippoorwill.

Sing to the village lass, whose happy home
Lies in yon quiet vale, behind the hill;
But, doom'd far, far from all I love to roam,
Sing not to me, oh gentle Whippoorwill.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 11:06:46