"SHE walks in beauty," like the moon,
When blushing at a world's delight,
Her misty wimple half withdrawn,
She dawns upon the gazer's sight.
The dainty rose upon her face
Doth ever lightly come and go;
The smile and blush each other chase
As Love and Joy alternate glow.
But more than beautiful is she-
Her blue eyes tell of holier things,
Of generous feelings warm and free,—
Of fancy's wild and Genii wings.
"She walks in beauty," and 'in grace,
The speaks with low melodious tone,
And o'er her form and in her face
His dearest magic Love has thrown.
But flattery's voice has not beguiled
Her lofty soul to selfish art,
For never throbbed in Nature's child
A warmer, truer, happier heart!
MRS. F. S. OSGOOD.
Он, what a world of bright and blissful dreams Wake at thy glance, like flowers beneath the
Sweet thoughts unfolding in those fervid beams,
Like budding rose-leaves opening one by one.
And as a soft hue steeps the ruby rose,—
One rich, soft hue, melting through every
fold,
Yet at the crimson core more deeply glows, Where none its blushing beauty may behold,
Thus are my thoughts, all tinged with love for thee;
Thus brightly glowing, where no eye may see
Their beauty; burning in their silent shrine,
Like gems soft gleaming in the dusky mine.
My heart shall yield its secret but in death,
E'en as the crushed rose pours its sweetest
breath.
TIME! Time!—in thy triumphal flight
How all life's phantoms flee away!
The smile of Hope-and young Delight,
Fame's meteor beam-and Fancy's ray;
They fade-and on thy heaving tide,
Rolling its stormy waves afar,
Are borne the wrecks of human pride-
The broken wrecks of Fortune's war.
Where hath the morning splendor flown,
Which danced upon the crystal stream?
Where are the joys to childhood known,
When life is an enchanted dream?
Enveloped in the starless night,
Which destiny hath overspread;
Enrolled upon that trackless flight
Where the dark wing of Time hath sped.
WHATE'ER of joy the coming year may bring, The past-the past-I never can forget.
WINTER has come again. The sweet south
Is a forgotten wind, and the strong earth
Has laid aside its mantle to be bound
By the frost fetter. There is not a sound
Save the skater's heel, and there is laid
An icy finger on the lip of streams.
And the clear icicle hangs cold and still,
And the snow-fall noiseless is as thought.
Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends
Many sweet voices with its odors out,
And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe
With a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb!
God made his ministry a silent one.
And he has given him a foot of steel
And an unlovely aspect, and a breath
Sharp to the senses-and we know that He
Tempereth well, and hath a meaning hid
Under the shadow of his hand. Look up!
And shall it be interpreted ?—Your home
Hath a temptation now. There is no voice
Of waters with beguiling for your ear,
And the cool forest and the meadows green
Witch not your feet away; and in the dells There are no sunny places to lie down. You must go in, and by your cheerful fire Wait for the offices of love, and hear Accents of human tenderness, and feast Your eye upon the beauty of the young. It is a season for the quiet thought, And the still reckoning with thyself. The year "Gives back the spirits of its dead," and Time Whispers the history of its vanished hours; And the heart call his affections up, Counteth his wasted ingots. Life stands still And settles like a fountain, and the eye Sees clearly through its depths, and noteth all That stirred its troubled waters. It is well That winter with the dying year should come. WILLIS.
THE faded flower, the dream of love,
The poison and the dart,
The tearful trust, the smiling wrong,
The tomb-behold, oh child of song,
The history of thy heart!
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