194 JOHN H. BRYANT. [1S30-40. The west was bright with daylight still : no moon, No stars were seen, save the bright star of love, That sailed alone in heaven. 'Twas in this walk, We heard the blue-bird in a leafy wood Near to the wayside, and we sat us down Upon a mossy bank, to list awhile To that sweet song. Peaceful before us lay Woodlands, and orchards white with ver- nal bloom, And flowering shrubs encircling happy homes, And broad green meads with wild-flowers sprinkled o'er : The scent of these came on the gentle wind, Sweet as the spicy breath of Araby. The smoke above the clustering roofs curled blue On the still air ; the shout of running streams Came from a leafy thicket by our side ; And that lone blue-bird in the wood above, Singing his evening hymn, perfected all. The hour, the season, sounds, and scenery. Mingling like these, and sweetly pleasing all. Made the full heart o'erflow. That maiden wept — Even at the sweetness of that song she wept. How sweet the tears shed by such eyes for joy! THE BETTER PART. Why should we toil for hoarded gain. Or waste in strife our nobler powers, Or follow Pleasure's glittering train ? 0, let a happier choice be ours. Death shall unnerve the arm of power, Unclasp the firmest grasp on gold, And scatter wide in one brief hour The treasured heaps of wealth untold. The hero's glory, and hi. fame. Built up mid crime, and blood, and tears, Are but a transient flush of fame Amid the eternal night of years. He whom but yesterday we saw Earth's mightiest prince, is gone to-day ; All systems, creeds, save Truth's great law. Are borne along and swept away. And Fashion's forms and gilded show, Shall vanish with the fleeting breath ; And Pleasure's votaries shall know Their folly at the gates of death. But he who delves for buried thought. And seeks with care for hidden truth. Shall find in age, unasked, unbought, A rich reward for toil in youth. Aye more, — away beyond life's goal, Of earnest toil each weary day Shall light the pathway of the soul Far on its onward, upward way. Then who can tell how wide a sphere Of thought and deed shall be his lot. Who treasured truth and knowledge here. And doing good, himself forgot ? THE VALLEY BROOK. Fresh from the fountains of the wood A rivulet of the valley came, And glided on for many a rood, Flushed Avith the morning's ruddy flame. The air was fresh and soft and sweet : The slopes in Spring's new verdure lay; And wet with dew-drops, at my feet. Bloomed the young violets of May. No sound of busy life was heard. Amid those pastures lone and still, Save the faint chii'p of early bird. Or bleat of flocks alons: the liill.
