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A SERENADE.

BY LUCY HOOPER.

Oh wake thee, lady, wake

The stars are on the sea,
And their holy torches burn

But for thee, love, for thee!
Oh! wake thee, lady, wake-

In the day's sweet prime
Other voices whisper thee,

Winning tones from thine :

But at night, but at night,

Wake for me, wake for me,
When the burning stars are bright

On the quiet sea.
When the moon is softly beaming

As I come to thee,
And the jasmine buds are gleaming,

Wake thee, love, for me.

As a holy torch that shineth,

Though no eye may see,
As a sun that ne'er declineth,

Is my love for thee.
Then wake thee, lady mine,

And keep thy tryst to-night,
While the moon is on the sea,

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-
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim

By the mist of Age is stained.
In nectar now bedew the lips,

And wake the voice of song,
For clouds will gather, and eclipse
The light of bliss ere long.
Fill high, fill high, with good old wine,

The cup our fathers drained-
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim

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,
Ere friend will darkly follow friend
To homes in churchyard mould.
Fill high, fill high, with good old wino,

The bowl our fathers drained
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim

By the mist of Age is stained !

Around this ancient festal board

Glad spirits met of yore,
But their merry strains are hushed in death

Their laugh will ring no more:
Under the yew trees, mossed and green,

May their quiet graves be found,
But in soul they hover nigh unseen
While tale and jest go round.
Then fill, fill high, with good old wine,

The bowl our fathers drained
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim

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,
Be but delusion's feverish dream,

Returning reason sweeps away-
Oh, who could nerve against despair?

Oh, who survive the loss of bliss?
And, slave-like, still his burden bear,

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;
Memory owns its magic strain,

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!

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