A SERENADE. BY LUCY HOOPER. Oh wake thee, lady, wake The stars are on the sea, But for thee, love, for thee! In the day's sweet prime Winning tones from thine : But at night, but at night, Wake for me, wake for me, On the quiet sea. As I come to thee, Wake thee, love, for me. As a holy torch that shineth, Though no eye may see, Is my love for thee. And keep thy tryst to-night, And the holy stars are bright. A FESTAL SONG. BY W. H. C. HOSMER. Fill high, fill high, with good old wine, The bowl our fathers drained- By the mist of Age is stained. And wake the voice of song, The cup our fathers drained- By the mist of Age is stained ! The foam-bells on the ruby tide Are types of passing things, Reminding us that Joy soon dies That graybeard Time hath wingsAnd a few more days will dawn and end, A few more moons wax old, The bowl our fathers drained By the mist of Age is stained ! Around this ancient festal board Glad spirits met of yore, Their laugh will ring no more: May their quiet graves be found, The bowl our fathers drained By the mist of Age is stained. IF THAT BRIGHT FAITH. BY ALFRED B. STREET. IF that bright faith, whose holy beam The future's darkness turns to day, Returning reason sweeps away- Oh, who survive the loss of bliss? And toil on through a world like this? Brow-furrowing care, heart-breaking grief, The bitter tears that anguish showersOh, where from these is found relief Oh, where, if that dark creed be ours? Better at once to end our pain, In the hushed grave our sorrows cast, Than drag along life's galling chain, And have no goal to reach at last. But if that faith which heavenward glows Sheds in my heart its light sincere, Then come, oh earth! with all thy woes I care not for my sorrows here. The soul within me cannot die; 'Twill soon from every pang be free; Though chained by “mortal here, on high "Twill dwell in ‘immortality' MINSTREL, SING THAT SONG AGAIN. BY O. W. EVEREST. MINSTREL, sing that song again, Plaintive in its solemn flow; Loved and cherished long ago : Lo! the past, the mystic past, Rises through the vista dimJust as twilight's shades are cast At the day's departing hymn! Minstrel, 'twas an eve like this: Stars were spangling all the sky: Every zephyr spoke of bliss Floating in its fragrance by; Then, within our moon-lit bower, One, with voice like music's own, Sweetly charmed the lingering hour, To the soft lute's silvery tone! As the witching cadence fell Wild within our bower of love, Angel bands might prove the spell, Bending from the courts above! Minstrel, chant once more the air, Soft as spring's departing breath: She who sang its numbers there Slumbers as the bride of Death! Minstrel, chide thou not my tears Thou hast waked a mournful theme; Memory roves the slumbering years, Like some dear, forgotten dream: Day will come, with joy and gladness Cares once more will fling their blight; Chide not, then, my spirit's sadnessMinstrel, let me weep to-night! |