Still sweet with blossoms is the year’s fresh prime.

The groves were God’s first temples.

Ah, why Should we, in the world’s riper years, neglect God’s ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd and under roofs That our frail hands have raised?

Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste.

When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up, Opened in airs of June her multiple OF golden chalices to humming birds And silken-wing’d insects of the sky.

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste, – Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man.

But ’neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.

Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -.

I grieve for life’s bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven’s own blue...