1850-60.] HELEN L. BO ST WICK. 551 LAST YEAR'S NESTS. One May morn, when the sun was bright, And orchard blooms of pink and white. Shook off the showers of yesternight — I spied a farmer, on his way, With sturdy team of roan and bay, To where the half-plowed meadow lay. I liked the old man's heartsome tone ; And caring not to muse alone, Measured my pace with sturdy roan. The reddening boughs drooped overhead — The moist earth mellowed 'neath our tread. We talked of beauty, and of bread. He told me how young farmer Boone Would sow too late, and reap too soon. And in wrong quarters of the moon — How fell the pear-tree's finest graft Before his knife, and milkmaids laughed At his odd feats in dairycraft. And all because, in cities bred, His youth behind a counter sped, Where dust and ink had clogged his head ! Sudden the old man stepped aside — A bird's nest on the tree he spied, And flung it to the breezes wide. " Where last year's nests, forlorn, I see. On flowering shrub, or bearing tree, I fling them to the winds," said he ; — " Else insects there will shelter find, And caterpillars spin and wind, Mai-ring the young fruit's tender rind." Most simple words ! — yet none can tell How through my spirit's depths they fell, As iron-weights sink in a well. And why, I cried, oh ! human Heart, When Skl§0fy singing ones depart, Learh'sl/thou so ill the yeoman's art ! Why seek, with Spring's returning glow. The music and the golden flow Of wings that vanished ere the snow ? Why long remembered, long deplored, The brooded Hopes that sang and soared. The Loves that such rare radiance poured? Oh, memory-haunted and oppress'd — Lorn heart ! the peasants' toil is best — Down with thy last year's empty nest! THE LITTLE COFFIN. 'TwAS a tiny rosewood thing, Ebon bound, and glittering With its stars of silver white, Silver tablet, blank and bright. Downy pillowed, satin lined. That I, loitering, chanced to find 'Mid the dust, and scent, and gloom Of the undertaker's room. Waiting empty — ah ! for whom ? Ah ! what love-watched cradle-bed Keeps to-night the nestling head ; Or, on what soft, pillowing breast Is the cherub form at rest, That ere long, with darkened eye Sleeping to no lullaby, Whitely robed, and still, and cold, Pale flowers slipping from its hold, Shall this dainty couch enfold .'* Ah ! what bitter tears shall stain All this satin sheen like rain. And what towering hopes be hid 'Neath this tiny coffin lid. Scarcely large enough to bear
