Soon summer is coming, your flow’rets will bloom,
   And spread new enchantments around your old home;
   Our grove by the river in beauty is drest,
   The Whippowil’s notes sweetly soothe us to rest.

   The sun, in mild splendor, sinks down in the west,
   Encircling with glory the old mountain’s crest;
   The clouds o’er his head glow with purple and gold,
   The river is catching the tinge of each fold.

   The scene would be lovely, if sister was here,
   But now I’m so lonely, it looks sad and drear;
   The beauties of nature are losing their charms,
   No more to divert me, till clasped in your arms.

   But I’m growing weary, I’ll draw to a close,
   And seek for refreshment in needful repose;
   If this, from a sister can give you delight,
   Retire to your chamber, this evening, and write.

   Adieu, my dear sister, until your return
   Sweet home will be dreary, and almost forlorn;
   May God be your guide, your supporter and stay,
   Directing your footsteps, wherever you stray.

A MORNING SCENE

On A sister’s Wedding day.

   Dear sister, when they called thee bride,
   That sound, my spirits deeply tried;
   My heart, at that one little word,
   Through every trembling fibre stirred.

   I’d still a place within thy heart,
   But oh, I felt it hard to part;
   And that long dreaded hour had come,
   When thou must leave thy childhood’s home.

   But that sad morn; a pleasant sight
   Cast o’er the future gleams of light;
   I listened, and the voice of prayer
   Ascended on the morning air.

   ’Twas then, I thought the heavenly dove
   Gave us a token of his love,
   For, in the western heavens, now
   Appeared a bright resplendent bow.

   ’Twas lovely as that arch displayed
   When Noah by the altar prayed;
   That sacred scene could but impart
   A gleam of sunshine to my heart.

   O, ’twas a consecrated hour,
   When, through that sweet refreshing shower
   The morning sunbeams brightly smiled,
   And whispered, trust thy Father, child.

TO THE WHIPPOWIL.

   Vernal songster, thou art here,
   With the flowers thou dost appear;
   Yes, sweet little Whippowil,
   Thou art singing by the rill;
   Where the silver moonbeam plays
   Thou dost chant thy hymn of praise;
   Thy shrill voice I love to hear,
   And I’d have thee warble near. 
   Come, sweet bird, the moonlight shines
   Through the verdant row of pines,
   Standing by our cottage door,
   Come, where thou hast sang before,
   When I heard thy thrilling note
   On the twilight breezes float,
   Ming’ling with the cheerful