Of her bright face, one glance will trace a picture on the brain,
  And of her voice, in echoing hearts a sound must long remain;
  But memory such as mine of her, so very much, endears
  When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life’s, but hers.

  I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
  A woman, of her gentle sex, the seeming paragon. 
  Her health! and would on earth there stood some more of such a frame,
  That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.

* * * * *

=_Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-._= (Manual, pp. 478, 503, 531.)

=357.= HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT.

  By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
    Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
  Here once the embattled farmers stood,
    And fired the shot heard round the world.

  The foe long since in silence slept;
    Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
  And Time the ruined bridge has swept
    Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

  On this green bank, by this soft stream,
    We set to-day a votive stone,
  That memory may their deed redeem,
    When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

  Spirit, that made those heroes dare
    To die, or leave their children free,
  Bid Time and Nature gently spare
    The shaft we raise to them and thee.

* * * * *

From “May Day.”

=_358._= DISAPPEARANCE OF WINTER.

    Not for a regiment’s parade,
  Nor evil laws or rulers made,
  Blue Walden rolls its cannonade,
  But for a lofty sign
  Which the Zodiac threw,
  That the bondage-days are told,
  And waters free as winds shall flow. 
  Lo! how all the tribes combine
  To rout the flying foe. 
  See, every patriot oak-leaf throws
  His elfin length upon the snows,
  Not idle, since the leaf all day
  Draws to the spot the solar ray,
  Ere sunset quarrying inches down,
  And half-way to the mosses brown;
  While the grass beneath the rime
  Has hints of the propitious time,
  And upward pries and perforates
  Through the cold slab a thousand gates,
  Till the green lances peering through
  Bend happy in the welkin blue,
       * * * * *
    The ground-pines wash their rusty green,
  The maple-tops their crimson tint,
  On the soft path each track is seen,
  The girl’s foot leaves its neater print. 
  The pebble loosened from the frost
  Asks of the urchin to be tost. 
  In flint and marble beats a heart,
  The kind Earth takes her children’s part,
  The green lane is the school-boy’s friend,
  Low leaves his quarrel apprehend,
  The fresh ground loves his top and ball,
  The air rings jocund to his call,
  The brimming brook invites a leap,