The Passing Of The Beautiful.

On southern winds shot through with amber light,     Breeding soft balm, and clothed in cloudy white,     The lily-fingered Spring came o'er the hills     Waking the crocus and the daffodils.     O'er the cold earth she breathed a tender sigh, -     The maples sang and flung their banners high,     Their crimson-tasseled pennons, and the elm     Bound his dark brows with a green-crested helm.     Beneath the musky rot of Autumn's leaves,     Under the forest's myriad naked eaves,     Life woke and rose in gold and green and blue,     Robed in the star-light of the twinkling dew.     With timid tread adown the barren wood     Spring held her way, when, lo! before her stood     White-mantled Winter wagging his white head,     Stormy his brow, and stormily he said: -     "Sole lord of terror, and the fiend of storm,     Crowned king of despots, my envermeiled arm     Slew these vast woodlands crimsoning all their bowers!     Thou, Spirit of Beauty, with thy bursting flowers,     Swollen with pride, wouldst thou usurp my throne,     Long planted here deep in the waste's wild moan?     Sworn foe of beauty, with a band of ice     I'll strangle thee tho' thou be welcomer thrice!"     So round her throat a band of blasting frost,     Her sainted throat of snow, he coiled and crossed,     And cast her on the dark, unfeeling mold;     Her tender blossoms, blighted in the fold     Of her warm bosoms, trembling bowed their brows     In holy meekness, or in scattered rows     Huddled about her white and silent feet,     Or on pale lips laid fond last kisses sweet,     And died: lilacs all musky for the May,     And bluer violets, and snow drops lay     Silent and dead, but yet divinely fair,     Like ice gems glist'ning in Spring's lovely hair.     The Beautiful, so innocent, sweet, and pure,     Why must thou perish, and the evil still endure?     Too soon must pass the Beautiful away!     Too long doth Terror hold anarchal sway!     Alas! sad heart, bow not beneath the pain,     Time changeth all, the Beautiful wakes again!     We can not question such; a higher power     Knows best what bud is ripest in its flower;     Silently plucks it at the fittest hour.