A song for the willow, the wild weeping willow,
    That murmurs a dirge to the rapturous days,
  And moans when the kiss of the breeze laden billow
    Entangles and dangles among the sad sprays! 
  A musical ditty to scatter the sadness,
    A warble of wildness to banish its tears,
  Till tremulous measures of bountiful gladness
    Be sounding and bounding through all of the years.

  The beautiful brooks, as they waken from slumbers,
    Pause under the shadows that fall from the boughs,
  And weave their caresses in passionate numbers,
    While soothing and smoothing the frowns from its brows;
  But chained in the desolate sorrows of weeping
    Its heart never warms to the raptures of mirth,
  And over its bosom no pleasures are creeping
    While wending and blending their joys with the earth.

  Then sing for the willow, the wild weeping willow,
    That droops in the smiles of the summer-born times,
  And mourns in the kiss of the sweet-scented billow,
    When beaming and gleaming are dripping with chimes! 
  While melodies move where their happiness lingers,
    They surely will gladden the tear-laden sprays,
  And music that flutters from fairy-like fingers
    Will lighten and brighten the burdensome days.

AT THE MILL.

  The water-wheel goes ’round and ’round
  With heavy sighs of mournful sound,
  While dismal cries and weary moans
  Unite with sad and tearful groans,
  And weeping waves of water throw
    Afar the echoes of their sadness,
  And cadences of plaintive woe
    Dispel each little note of gladness.

  My daily life goes ’round and ’round,
  And rest for me is never found;
  The sobbing dirges of distress
  Are more than songs of happiness;
  The shadows of despairing doom
    Condemn to-day and curse to-morrow,
  And muffled terrors fill the gloom
    Which offers anguish to my sorrow.

  But hope, O, heart, for future weal! 
  The waters rest beyond the wheel;
  So life may sing when toil is done
  And all its battles lost or won. 
  There lives a sweeter music there,
    Of gentle and melodious measure,
  Where weeping never comes and where
    The ages perish into pleasure.

SHADOW AND SHINE.

  They will find in this life who are grieved with its gladness
    No songs for the heart and no hopes for the soul,
  But will faint in the glooms where the dirges of sadness
    In tremulous murmurs of wretchedness roll;
  For the sweets of this earth never lavish their kisses
    Where lives in the valleys of rapture repine;
  In the tortures they mourn who denounce all the blisses,—­
    They weep in the shadow that rail at the shine.