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THE LILI POND. OME fairy spirit with his wand,
Oh! there together while we stood,
A butterfly was wafted o'er
His glimmering beauty doth return For here the musing soul is merged
Upon me when the soft winds blow, In woods no other scene can bring,
And lilies toward the sunlight yearn. And sweeter seems the air when scourged With wandering wild-bee's murmuring.
The yielding wood? And yet t’was loth
To yield unto our happy march; One ripple streaks the little lake,
Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both Sharp purple-blue; the birches, thin
Could pass its green, elastic arch.
Yet there, at last, upon the marge
We found ourselves, and there, behold, How came we through the yielding wood, In hosts the lilies, white and large,
That day, to this sweet-rustling shore ? Lay close with hearts of downy gold!
Deep in the weedy waters spread
The rootlets of the placid bloom :
In deep still waters of hearts-gloom.
To live in light and on the pool
Would through the airy region stream
bright, That birds would sing and think it were not
night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! 0, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek.
Few words were said as moments passed;
TREU UND FEST.
@OME blame the years that fly so fast, Our love in universal law.
* And sigh o'er loves and friendships
gone; But all at once a bird sang loud,
While others say too long they last, From dead twigs of the gloamy beach,
And wish each day were earlier done. His notes dropped dewy, as from a cloud, A blessing on our married speech.
But thou art none of these—to thee
The past is past; past not in vain.
What need to wish them here again?
Days hallowed each by noble use-
What need to wish them earlier done?
Are eager for to-morrow's sun.
Thy trust and rest unbroken are ; (From " Romeo and Juliet,” Act II., Scene 2.)
In God's appointed pathway still POM. He jests at scars, that never felt Thy constant spirit, like a star, a wound.
Moves on accomplishing His will. [Juliet appears above at a window.
ANONYMOUS. But, soft! what light through yonder window
breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!
THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief,
GAED a waefu' gate yestere'en, That thou her maid art far more fair than she: | A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue; Be not her maid, since she is envious;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright, 0, that she knew she were!
Her lips like roses wet wi’ dew, She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of
Her heaving bosom, lily-white; that?
It was her een sae bonnie blue. Her eye discourses, I will answer it.
She talked, she smiled, my heart she wiled, I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:
She charmed my soul, I wist na how; Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
And aye the stound, the deadly wound, Having some business, do entreat her eyes
Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. To twinkle in the spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her But spare to speak, and spare to speed; head?
She'll aiblins listen to my vow; The brightness of her cheek would shame Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead those stars,
To her twa een sae bonnie blue. As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven,
(From the Spanish.) ESTLE closely, little hand,
Closely, warmly clasped in mine! While across this evening land
Fainter grows the sunset-shine,
And a low breeze thrills the pine,
Linger, little hand, in mine!
Whisper in thy captive's ear; Of all voices Earth has known,
Thine is sweetest, Love, to hear;
Heaven therein seems strangely near,
On the soul's enraptured ear!
But for joy that, borne apart, Love hath built for love a nest
In his deep entranced heart.
There, my gentler self, thou art, (While for thy pure-thoughted sake All the songs of Eden wake)
Sheltered, tranquil and apart. Flutter nigh me, timorous lips,
Coy as bird-wings poised for flight; Ah! but twilight's half eclipse
Slowly melteth into night;
Then ye faltering lips alight, *Soft as dew-falls of the South, On a softly answering mouth.
Surely veiled by gracious night,
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.
“OH, HAD MY LOVE NE'ER
SMILED ON ME."
(From ". The Duenna."
I ne'er had known such anguish;
To bid me cease to languish!
Breathe on a flame half perished ;
To kill the hope she cherished !
That drove as winds did blow it,
To find a grave below it;
He glowed with joy to hear it;
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
(From The Pirate.")
O for music's softest numbers,
Soft as the pillow of her slumbers !
Fire-flies on the air are wheeling;
The distant beds of flowers revealing.
A shadowed bliss the real excelling;
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
(From "The Minister's Wooing." O not listen to hear whom a woman praises, to know where her heart is; do not ask for whom she expresses the most earnest enthusiasm. But if there be one she once knew well, whose name she never speaks; if she seems to have an instinct to avoid every oc
casion of its mention; if, when you speak, she drops into silence and changes the subject-why, look there for something!—just as, when getting through deep meadow-grass, a bird flies ostentatiously up before you, you may know her nest is not there, but far off under distant tufts of fern and buttercup, through which she has crept, with a silent flutter in her spotted breast, to act her pretty little falsehood before you.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKIES. ('HEN stars are in the quiet skies, There is an hour when holy dreams Then most I pine for thee;
Through slumber fairest glide, Bend on me then thy tender eyes,
And in that mystic hour it seems
Thou shouldst be by my side.
My thoughts of thee too sacred are
For daylight's common beam; Mine earthly love lies hushed in light,
I can but know thee as my star, Beneath the heaven of thine.
My angel, and my dream!
When stars are in the quiet skies, There is an hour when angels keep
Then most I pine for thee;
Bend on me then thy tender eyes,
SIR EDWARD BULWER, LORD LYTTON.
THE SWEET NEGLECT.
(From "The Silent Woman.")
That makes simplicity a grace ;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free; Lady, it is to be presumed,
Such sweet neglect more taketh me Though art's hid causes are not found,
Than all the adulteries of art! All is not sweet, all is not sound.
They strike my eyes, but not my heart.