and whispering spoke
    To the bending sumach, that stooped to throw
    Its chequering shade o’er a brook below. 
    It kissed the leaves of the beech, and breathed
    O’er the arching elm, with its ivy wreathed: 
    It climbed to the ash on the mountain’s height—­
    It flew to the meadow, and hovering light
    O’er leafy forest and fragrant dell,
    It bound them all in its silvery spell. 
    Each spreading bough heard the whispered bliss,
    And gave its cheek to the gallant’s kiss—­
    Though giving, the leaves disdainingly shook,
    As if refusing the boon they took.

    Who dreamed that the morning’s light would speak,
    And show that kiss on the blushing cheek? 
    For in silence the fairy work went through—­
    And no croning owl of the scandal knew: 
    No watch-dog broke from his slumbers light,
    To tell the tale to the listening night. 
    But that which in secret is darkly done,
    Is oft displayed by the morrow’s sun;
    And thus the leaves in the light revealed,
    With their glowing hues what the night concealed. 
    The sweet, frail flowers that once welcomed the morn,
    Now drooped in their bowers, all shrivelled and lorn;
    While the hardier trees shook their leaves in the blast—­
    Though tell-tale colors were over them cast. 
    The maple blushed deep as a maiden’s cheek,
    And the oak confessed what it would not speak. 
    The beech stood mute, but a purple hue
    O’er its glossy robe was a witness true. 
    The elm and the ivy with varying dyes,
    Protesting their innocence, looked to the skies: 
    And the sumach rouged deeper, as stooping to look,
    It glanced at the colors that flared in the brook. 
    The delicate aspen grew nervous and pale,
    As the tittering forest seemed full of the tale;
    And the lofty ash, though it tossed up its bough,
    With a puritan air on the mountain’s brow,
    Bore a purple tinge o’er its leafy fold,
    And the hidden revel was gayly told!

The Sea-Bird.

[Illustration:  The Sea-Bird]

    Far, far o’er the deep is my island throne,
    Where the sea-gull roams and reigns alone;
    Where nought is seen but the beetling rock,
    And nought is heard but the ocean-shock,
    And the scream of birds when the storm is nigh,
    And the crash of the wreck, and the fearful cry
    Of drowning men, in their agony. 
    I love to sit, when the waters sleep,
    And ponder the depths of the glassy deep,
    Till I dream that I float on a corse at sea,
    And sing of the feast that is made for me. 
    I love on the rush of the storm to sail,
    And mingle my scream with the hoarser gale. 
    When the sky is dark, and the billow high,
    When the tempest sweeps in its terror by,
    I love to ride on the maddening blast—­
    To flap my wing o’er the fated mast,
    And sing to the crew a song of fear,
    Of the reef and the surge that await them here.