PROBABILITIES FOR NEW ENGLAND.

BENEATH the sunshine of thine eyes,

Those meaner doubts that me torment,

Fly far, as summer cloud-rack flies,

When Iris' golden bow is bent.

'T is as though the skies should darken

When away thou turn'st thy glances;

But while to my song thou'lt hearken,

Swift I pour my happy fancies.

Give, I pray thee, still thus give me

Sun, and sky, and life together,

Then, in sooth, I'll prove this to thee, -

"Loving eyes make pleasant weather."