Through meadows now meander, And now, through green woods wander, Its murmurs now increasing, On thy glad current goes; And now, with roar unceasing, The rapid torrent flows; And now, all tossed in feathery foam, Sparkling with rainbow light it glows; It seems impatient for its home, And hastening to repose. Flow on, thou shining river, Thou soon shalt reach the sea; Thus we are passing ever, And haste away like thee. Wave after wave, in ceaseless flow, O may the stream thy gladness know, SHE IS NOT ON THE SUNNY LEA. BY GEORGE LUNT. SHE is not on the sunny lea, She is not by the shady brook, She is not where she used to be, By her ain mither's ingle-nook; And weary falls the gloomy night, And weary drags the heavy day, Since she is gone that made them bright, My ain dear love, that's far away. I wander sadly roun' an' roun' To every place we loved so well,The hill-side where the sun went down, The hawthorn in the flowery dell; But oh, I miss her sad and sair, Where we thegither knelt to pray,The village kirk,-that sees nae mair My ain dear love, that's far away. I canna see her light step trip, To her sweet modest blushin' face; And oh, my heart, it aches for thine, My ain dear love that's far away. I SEE-I SEE A BRIGHT-BRIGHT STAR. BY ISAAC C. PRAY. I SEE-I see a bright-bright star Oh no! it is the gondola Which brings my love to me; Nor heeds it yon deep sea, While notes of love with richness rise,- Ah me-ah me! no brighter star Than my own love's light gondola Upon the moon-lit sea, Where brightly-brightly gleams each oar The rippling waves among, While turn the boatmen to the shore, And sounds my lover's song. Those notes-those notes are dearer far Now floating o'er the sea, Than beams from off the pilot-star To mariners can be. But gaily-gaily comes my star, My lover's form I see How sweetly sounds his light guitar! "I come my love to thee." NAY, LADY, ASK ME NOT TO DWELL. BY NATHANIEL GREENE. NAY, lady, ask me not to dwell Upon the theme you gave; In earlier and in happier days, But now, my friend, that dream is past→ Alas, it is a saddening thought That life's delightful spring, With all its fresh and budding hopes, But thus it is;-and memory The Indian summer of the soul, That kindly comes again- MY FATHER DIED ERE I COULD TELL. BY SUMNER L. FAIRFIELD. My father died ere I could tell The love my young heart felt for him: Her cheek grew cold, her blue eye dim, And, one by one, the friends of youth And solitude came o'er me then, And early I was taught to treasure Lone thoughts in glimmering wood and glen; Now they are mine in utmost measure. |