Litchfield enquirer., 1857-12-31

 The laws of Heaven pronounce thy laws re-
 versed. From scenes like these 'ts well to turn away, And Fancy leads our wandering feet astray The cold, long winter yields to gentler spring, The lilac buds, the wandering blue-birds sing, And so do wc Who has not worshipped
 grace, And owned the magic of pretty faces Still on our memory does saabeam lay, The laughing sunbeam of a bright spring day. Which tuned our harp, and wrought our lips
 to say:
 o saw ye not fair Marian,
 Who came ere grass was green, And moved among our country folk,
 As courty as queen; Who broughtsthe sunshine with her, Though drowned the winter sky, And sometimes near the Snow-drlfts
 The blue-eyed violets lie. We've violets now, fair Marian,
 And in the gardens bowers Are pearls with which sad April
 Has neckIaccd half the flowers; But shadows float above them,
 And though the grass is green. The guests move cold and listlessly,
 Forsaken of their queen. We arc sorrowful, fair Marian, Though high the sky-lark springs, And all along the copses
 The thrush and oriole sings; And silently at eventide,
 The fickering lanps burn long; A string is lost from off our harp,
 A strain from out our song. o, turn again, fair Marian,
 The birds are back to nest, The bclted bee is murnurlng,
 And pumed the wood-birds crest :; But through the budding groves, his notes Souud mournfully afur o turn again, fair Marian,
 Our April has no star. And often now, as Aprs gentle showers Talked to tie dafIiies aud these hardier flowers, Which, ere the snow-drlts have fersook the
 dells, -. Nod their soft plumes and shake their opening
 bells, Aloug the heath, or meath the hemlock tree With eyes cast down, and often pended kuee, We pluckcd the May flower, which, of all the
 train, We hail most gladly 'mongst the ferns again, Aud yield to it softly warbled strain;
 Under the ferns found it, =
 Sleeping quiet aud low,
 \ few red berries around it,
 And leaves crisped over with snow Thus with the ferns around it,
 Close to the dritted snow, The ch'ld of the Pilgrim found it,
 Hundreds of years ago..
 The red man roameG in his glory,
 The red squaw nursed her babe,
 And high where the rocks were hoary,
 Her boy with his arrows played. The white child sought the river
 For the pale arbutus blow
 The red boy grasped his quiver
 Ana almeu at nm down below.
 Still, still, by the banks of the river,
 Sleeping quiet and low,
 Mid scarlet berries aud heather,
 The waxen May flowers grow
 And still to the banks of the river,
 Do children of white men go;
 But where is the boy and his quver,
 That aimed at them down below Pardon us now, if here we note thing, BrimfulI of venom, but without sting, That worked and brewed like liquor in a vat, And came to us, the Litchfctd Democrat. How long it breathed, we have not date to Like every dog, it doubtless had its day, Like every puppy, we had better said Re;d the inscription on its tombstone's head Here rests in peace, it's bones together, A thing that never knew it's father; Break not it's sleep, this quiet space Is truly its first dwelling place :. Its place of birth did never kuow it, It ne,er improved the earth til put below it. , Once more to change, and leave the local theme, Which quickly closed life's ftfui, feverist dream; Now comes the news which rumor long has told, Death after death in Washington behold A dark disease, to no physician known, By deaths pale angel on the blast is sown, Dark and as deadly to all living parts, As love of power to politicians hearts, Disscctsd too. their vitals seem the same