I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. Moore. THOSE EVENING BELLS. Those evening bells! those evening bells! Those joyous hours are passed away; And so 'twill be when I am gone; PEACE BE AROUND THEE. Peace be around thee, wherever thou rov'st; And all that thou wishest, and all that thou lov'st, Come smiling around thy sunny way! If sorrow e'er this calm should break, May even thy tears pass off so lightly, Like spring-showers, they'll only make The smiles that follow shine more brightly. May Time, who sheds his blight o'er all, They shall not crush one flower beneath. Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances! Moore. * THE MINSTREL. * * But who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried. In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage-curs at early pilgrims bark ; Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings : The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings; Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs ; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower! And shrill lark carols from her aërial tower. * * * * Beattie, GOD PROVIDETH FOR THE MORROW. Lo, the lilies of the field, How their leaves instruction yield! By the blessed birds of heaven; 66 Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow, God provideth for the morrow! "Say, with richer crimson glows Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow, "One there lives, whose guardian eye One there lives, who, Lord of all, Free from doubt and faithless sorrow; Reginald Heber CANADIAN BOAT SONG. Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time; Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl ; Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, Utawa's tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon: Moore. |