Over the meadows hasten to their rest;
The breeze is hush'd, and no more turns the mill,
With its light sails upon yon rising crest;
Its busy music now awhile is still,
And not a sound heaves up from Nature's breast;
The barks upon the river smoothly ride,
With sails all furl'd, and flags that listless fall,
Unrock'd, unshaken by the flowing tide;
The cattle lazy lie within the stall;
And thus the Time-stream on doth sweetly glide,
Bearing repose and slumber unto all.





SEA MARGINS.


Ever restless, ever toiling,
Fretting fiercely on its narrow bounds,
Still filling heaven and earth with mournful sounds,
Old ocean, sullen from its rocks recoiling,
Rearing wild waves foam-crested to the sky,
Lashes again the beaches angrily:

Slowly victor-like advancing,
Marching roughly o'er the conquer'd land,
Clean sweeping olden limits from the strand,
In proud derision o'er the spoil'd Earth glancing,