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As then to me he seemed to fly,
I kept no count- I took no note,
And clear them of their dreary mote;
I asked not why, and recked not where,
I learn'd to love despair.
And half I felt as they were come
Regained my freedom with a sigh.
THE CHANGELING.- Lowell.
I HAD a little daughter,
And she was given to me
To the Heavenly Father's knee,
Might in some dim wise divine
To this wayward soul of mine.
But to me she was wholly fair,
Still lingered and gleamed in her hair ;
And as many changes took,
On the yellow bed of a brook.
To what can I liken her smiling
Upon me, her kneeling lover,
And dimpled her wholly over,
And I almost seemed to see
Sending sun through her veins to me!
And it hardly seemed a day,
Stole my little daughter away;
But loosed the hampering strings,
My little bird used her wings.
A little angel child,
And smiles as she never smiled :
When I wake in the morning, I see it
Where she always used to lie, And I feel as weak as a violet
Alone 'neath the awful sky; As weak, yet as trustful also;
For the whole year long I see
Still worked for the love of me;
Rain falls, suns rise and set,
A poor little violet.
I cannot sing it to rest,
And bless it upon my breast;
And sits in my little one's chair,
Transfigures its golden hair.
T. H. Bayley. SHADES of ev'ning close not o'er us,
Leave our lonely bark a while ; Morn, alas! will not restore us
Yonder dim and distant isle. Still my fancy can discover
Sunny spots where friends may dwell; Darker shadows round us hover,
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well! 'Tis the hour when happy faces
Smile around the taper's light; Who will fill our vacant places ?
Who will sing our songs to-night? Through the mist that floats above us
Faintly sounds the vesper-bell, Like a voice from those who love us:
Breathing fondly, Fare thee well!
When the waves around me breaking,
As I pace the deck alone, And my eye is vainly seeking
Some green leaf to rest upon; When on that dear land I ponder,
Where my old companions dwell, Absence makes the heart grow fonder
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!
MUSIC BY MOONLIGHT.-Shakspeare. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night, Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look, how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold : There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st, But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins ;Such harmony is in immortal souls ! But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn : With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear And draw her home with music.
OUR ONE LIFE.-H. Bonar.
'Tis not for man to trifle! life is brief,
And sin is here.
A dropping tear.
One, only one;
That narrow span !
Our being is no shadow of thin air,
No vacant dream,
But only seem.
No idle tale ;
On summer gale.
One heavy sigh.
An endless joy.
How dull your hue ;
Made fair and new !
IN men whon men condcmn as ill
J. AND W. RIDER, PRINTERS, LONDON.