"Soul of man in crypt of clay! When thy latent wings shall be And with transport marvellous O'er Elysian fields to soar Evermore!" Mary Noel Meigs. THE SPELLS OF MEMORY. 'T was but the note of a summer bird, IT But a dream of the past in my heart it stirred, And wafted me far to a breezy spot, Where blossomed the blue forget-me-not. And the broad, green boughs gave a checkered gleam To the dancing waves of a mountain-stream; And there, in the heat of a summer day, Again on the velvet turf I lay, And saw bright shapes in the floating clouds, And reared fair domes mid their fleecy shrouds, As I looked aloft to the azure sky, And longed for a bird's soft plumes to fly, Till lost in its depths of purity. Alas! I have waked from that early dream : Far, far away is the mountain-stream; And the dewy turf, where so oft I lay, And the woodland flowers, they are far away; And the skies that once were to me so blue, And yet I may wander in fancy back, At Memory's call, to my childhood's track, And the fount of Thought hath been deeply stirred By the passing note of a summer bird. It was but the rush of the autumn wind, And I was abroad with my brothers twain As we caught the prize which a kindly breeze Oh! a weary time hath passed away And its toil in the city's crowded air, And its pining wish for the hill-tops high; But I see the haunts of my early days The old green wood where the sunshine plays, It was but a violet's faint perfume, But it bore me back to a quiet room, Where a gentle girl in the spring-time gay young life away, Was breathing her fair Whose light through the rose-hued curtains fell, And tinted her cheek like the ocean-shell; Where Love watched on through the long, long hours, And sealed up gently the lids so fair, And damped the bros with its clustering hair, hen we laid the flower her hand had pressed T wither and die on her gentle breast; Edward Coates Pinkney. ITALY. KNOW'ST thou the land which loves to choose Like blessings there descend the sparkling dews; In gleaming streams the crystal rivers run, The purple vintage clusters in the sun; Rih fruits hang high vpen the verdant t,ees; And vivid blossoms gem the shady groves, Where bright-plumed birds discourse their careless loves Beloved!-speed we from this sullen strand, Until thy light feet press that green shore's yellow sand. Look seaward thence, and naught shall meet thine eye It looks a dimple on the face of Earth, The place's Genius, feminine and fair; The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud; Carry our married hearts, and be all pain forgot. There Art, too, shows, when Nature's beauty palla, And each can mutely prompt some thought of flameThe meanest stone is not without a name. Then come, beloved!-hasten o'er the sea, To build our happy hearth in blooming Italy Rev George W. Bethune, D. D. NIGHT STUDY I AM alone; and yet In the still solitude there is a rush Around me, as were met A crowd of viewless wings; I hear a gush Ye winged Mysteries, Sweeping before my spirit's conscious eye, Beckoning me to arise, And go forth from With my very self, and fly you far in the unknown, unseen immense Of worlds beyond our sphere-what are ye? whence? Ye eloquent Voices, Now so as breathings of a distant flute, The trumpet in the victory and pursuit ; Strange are ye, yet familiar, as ye call My soul to wake from earth's sense and its thrall. |