New-York daily tribune. [volume] (New-York [N.Y.]) 1842-1866, 1853-04-30

CLARK, ana was wrnten py MN Tor an early number Of
The Knickerbocker Magazine:
A SONG OF MAY.
THE Springs scented buds all around me are swelling
There are songs in the stream, there is health in
the gale;
A sense of delight in each bosom is dweling
AS foat the pure day beams DER mountain aud vale
The desolate reign Of Old Winter is broken
The verdure is fresh upon every tree;
of Natures revival the charm, and token
OF love, oh thou Spirit of Beauty! to thee
The sun lookeh forth from the halls of the morning,
And hushes the clouds that begrt his career;
Hewelcomes the gladness ard glory, returning
To rest on the promise and hope of the year
He fills with rich light all the bam-breathing flowers
He mounts to the zenith, and laughs on the wave;
He wakes into music the green forest-bowers,
And gilds the gay plains which the broad rivers lave
The Young bird is out on his delicate pinion-
He timdly sails in the infinite sky;
Agreeing to May and her fairy dominion,
He pours on the west-winds fragrant sigh:
Around, above, there are peace and pleasure
The woodlands are snging-the heaven Is bright
The fields are unfolding their emerald treasure
And mans genial spirit is soaring in light
Alas for my weary and care-haunted bosom!
The spells of the spring-time arouse it no moro;
The song in the wd-woOd-the sheen of the blossom
The fresh-wellng fountain-thelr magic is Ger.
When list TO the sreams-when look the flowers,
They tell of the Past, with so mournful tone,
That call ND the throngs of my Ongvanished hours,
And sigh that their transports are over and gone
From the wde-spreading earth-from the llmtess
There have vanished an eloquent glory and CLEAN
Tony veild mind no more, the influence given,
Which cooreth life with the hues OF dream:
The bIoom.pnrpled landscape its lOveness keepeth-
deem that light, as of old, gilds the wave;
But the eye of my spirit IN heaylness sleepeth,
- md IA NIsln ora
Yet it is not that age on my years hath descended
"ris not that its snOw-wreaths enclrcle my brow;
Rut the newness and sweetness of Being are ended
elnot their love kndling witchery now ling
The shadows of Death DER my path have been sweep
There are those who have loved me- debarred from
tbe dav: sleeping,
The green turf is bright where in peace they are
And on wings of remembrance my soul Is away.
Il is shut to the glow of this present existence
Ii hears from the Past, a funeral strain
And il eagerly turns TO the hlgh-seenlng distance,
Where the lost blooms OF earth Will be garnered
again; luOurlsn
Where no mildew the soft damask-rose cheek shall
Where Grief bears 10 longer the poisonous sting;
Where pitiless DEATH no dark scepter can flourish,
Or stain with his blight the luxuriant spring.
It is thus that the hopes which to others given
Fall cold on nv heart in this rich month of May;
hear the clear anthems that ring through the heaven
| drink the bland airs that enliyen the day;
And if gentle Nature, her festival keeping,
Delights not my bosom, ali do not condemns
Der the lost and the lovely my spirit is weeping,
For my hearts fondeSt raptures are buried with
them!
The exquisite sadness of these lines as natural as their
melody is beautiful They will remind the reader of the
kindred feeling expressed by BYRoN in the tribute which
be pays to the young and gallant HOWARD, who fell at the
battle of Waterloo:
And when stood beneath the fresh green tree,
That living where thou didst to live,
And saw around the wide fields revive