Ob! tell us not- that Parodist

Bloomed in the distant past, Ere Culture o'er the darkened world

Her radiant light had cast!

Oh! talk not of a Golden Age hi centuries dim and old, Before creative Art began

Her wonders to unfold!

No! Paradise is yet to come!

And in the Aiiare yean, With unimagined glories crowned,

The Golden Age appears.

The heaven-taught gardener's wondrous skill Shall wreath the Earth with flowers,

While new and luscious fruits shall grow Throughout her Eden bowers.

The world was but a wilderness,

Till Art's celestial birth Spread culture, like a robe of light,

O'er all the joyful Earth.

Wild grasses wared their scanty store

Over the untitled plain. That now, with life and bounty filled,

Bend down their ripened grain.

The wild-wood briar waited long

For love, that should disclose, By Art's sweet power, from meagre buds

The full and blushing rose.

8our grew the rough and stinted crab

Within the thorn tree's shade. Where now, amid the glancing leaves,

Through Culture's magic aid-Swells forth the Apple's glowing cheek,

With juices rich and rare, And hangs, with melting nectar filled,

The templing golden Pear.

And, in the Future's brightening yean,

Progression's law divine, Unfolding still, with still new charms,

Shall make the landscape shine.

So that the day shall never dawn,

In which still fairer flowers And fruits more luscious shall not coma,

To bless this world of ours.

Then rosy Hope, with heaven-eyed Faith,

Shall cheer our labors wise, Till this once rough dark wilderness

Shall change to Paradise.

Deiham, Mass., May, 1852.