Possess your poet's soul in patience!
Your notes shall soon be falling dew,--
Most mystical of transformations!

Your heart, dear Poet, surely yields;
And soon you'll leave your uplands flowery,
Forsaking fresh and bowery fields,
For "pastures new"--upon the Bowery!
You've piped at home, where none could pay,
Till now, I trust, your wits are riper.
Make no delay, but come this way,
And pipe for them that pay the piper!



THE BLUE VIOLET.


Blossom that spread'st, as spring brings in
Her sudden flights of swallows,
Thy nets of blue, cool-meshed and thin,
In rain-wet pasture hollows,--

Thronging the dim grass everywhere
Amid thy heart-leaves tender,
Thy temperate fairness seems more fair
Even than August's splendor!

Yet do I hear complaints of thee,--
Men doubting of thy fragrance!