MAYFLOWERS.
I fancy in my buried race Some Puritan, far-off and dim,Who left in me no other trace Than love of what was dear to him.
Through richer veins his blood has flowed, But every spring its pulse I feelWhen, in the ruts of Seabrook road, By the first Mayflower's sod I kneel.
For scarcely could this wild perfume Enrapture so my soul and sense,If, quick with that ethereal bloom, Thrilled not anew the influence
When all his spirit's icy death— The first long winter's chill despair—Was blown on by this tender breath, And vanished in immortal air.
