I'm a wild, gay lark,
Like a rudderless bark,
She'll never be mine, heigh-ho!
But I'll worship still,
With a holy thrill,
At her saintly shrine, heigh-ho!
THOU art too like thy mother, boy!
Thy soft blue eye, thy chestnut hair,
Thy dimpled cheek, and, lurking there,
That rosy laugh so full of joy,
And love, and glee, are her's alone,—
And her's thy voice's lute-like tone.
Thou art too like thy mother, boy!
Whene'er I listen to thy sigh,
Thy mother gone seems hovering nigh;
And when I call thee all my joy,
I see her smile upon thy cheek,
And, breathless, wait to hear her speak.
THE atmosphere is magic, as it bathes
The brow and bosom with Lethean balm;
And beauteous angels wait there, radiant
With the pure blissful light that gushes forth
From Heaven's half-open portals; and their
wings
Glance ever at our bidding, swift as thought.
How sweetly do they bear us in their arms,
From this dull workshop of the heart and brain,
To their own blest dominion! where each
breeze
Is laden with delight. How tenderly
They lay us in the arms of those we love,
While the full heart is throbbing, and the eye
Pouring from its rich depth an ardent flood
Of ecstasy unmingled, unalloy'd.
Then hands are clasped, and lips are fondly pressed,
That never meet save in that magic land; And words are breathed, and ecstasies are felt,
That Earth knows nothing of. There comes no doubt,
No withering suspicion, no mistrust,
Into that joyous world. All there is pure,
Faultless and beautiful,-and full of bliss.
MRS. L. J. PEIRSON.
As silent burns the everlasting flame
Amid the darkness of the heathen's tomb-
A lambent light which Time cannot con-
So, in my heart, unquenchable, the same,
Love's unconsuming fire, no age can tame,
Burns ever, star-like, giving tireless light
To thy sweet Memory, drest in saintly white,
Which there lies treasured; while thy precious
The fountain whence my inspiration came— Like Hesperus among the lights of HeavenBurns in the centre of my thoughts, which sit With twinkling vigils, like the stars of even, Each, for its own life's sake, now watching it— Showing the soul it never can forget.
To the Fringed Gentian.
Thou blossom, bright with Autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven's own blue,
Thou openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.:
Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple drest,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,
When woods are bare, and birds are flown,
And frosts, and shortening days portend
The aged year is near its end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye,
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue-blue-as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.
I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.
SHE was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight,
A lovely apparition sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her on a nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright nor good
For human nature's daily food:
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.
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