Faint fragrance out; the robin’s breast would make
A flame a-field; the snow he could not save.
And Spring on Spring, as wave in strong wave’s wake,
Still rolls a bloomy billow o’er his grave.
A RADICAL.
He never feared to pry the stable stone
That loving lichens clad with silvery gray;
Torn ivies trembled as they slipped away,
Their empty arms now loose and listless blown.