Go forth, my heart, and seek the bliss
    Of such a summer day as this,
      Bestowed on all by Heaven;
    The beauties of the garden see,
    Behold! it is for thee and me
      Its glories all are given.

    The trees with whispering leaves are dressed,
    The earth upon her dusky breast
      Her robe of green is wearing;
    The flowers are blooming far and wide,—­
    Not Solomon in all his pride
      With them would bear comparing.

    The dove from out her nest doth fly;
    Far upward in the clear blue sky
      The lark her way is winging;
    Hark to the lovely nightingale! 
    With her sweet song each hill and dale,
      And woods and rocks, are ringing.

    The hen brings out her little brood,
    The swallow finds her young ones food,
      The stork her house is keeping. 
    The bounding stag, the timid roe,
    Are full of joy, and to and fro,
      Through the high grass, are leaping.

    The brook is tinkling as it goes,
    And with the myrtle and the rose
      Its shady banks adorning;
    While, from the flowery mead near by,
    The sheep and shepherd’s joyful cry
      Salutes the early morning.

    The never idle troops of bees
    Fly here and there, and where they please
      Their honey food are quaffing;
    The sap is running up the vine,
    Round the old elm its tendrils twine,
      And in the sun are laughing.

    And can I, may I, silent be? 
    When all God’s glorious works I see
      My soul desires to know him. 
    When all are singing I must sing,
    And to the Highest I must bring
      The tribute which I owe him.

    Are all things here so bright and fair,
    And has he with a loving care
      My happy being given? 
    What, in the glorious world above,
    Where all is beauty, all is love,—­
      What shall I be in heaven?

    O, were I there!  O, stood I now
    In that great Presence! there to bow
      In grateful love before him,
    Then would I with the angels raise
    One never-ending song of praise,
      And worship and adore him!

TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL.

Sweet flower! so young, so fresh, so fair,
Bright pleasure sparkling in thine eye,
Alas! e’en thee time will not spare,

                                  And thou must die.

The heart with youthful hope so gay,
That scarcely ever breathed a sigh,
Must weep o’er pleasures fled away,

                                  For all must die.

But though the rosy cheek may fade,
The virtuous wish, the purpose high,
The bloom with which the soul’s arrayed,

                                  Shall never die.