Be kind to thy sister: not many may know
The depth of true sisterly love ;-
The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below
The surface that sparkles above.
Be kind to thy father, once fearless and bold;
Be kind to thy mother so near;
Be kind to thy brother, nor show thy heart cold:
Be kind to thy sister so dear.
OH! remember the hour when our first vows we
Oh! think on the moments of youth's happy day; Ere sorrow or sadness our gay prospects blighted, And we bask'd in the sunshine of love's genial ray.
Oh! remember the time when first, love, we wander'd
Thro' yon shady grove by the moon's silv'ry light,
When near to our path the calm river meander'd,
And softly above sung the sweet bird of night.
Tho' moments of pleasure and love are fast fading,
The bright dream of youth quickly passing away,
They'll leave us, when age our dull pathway is shading,
A friendship so firm as will know no decay.
EVER weeping at the casement,
Ever looking, leaning out,
While the village in amazement
Wonder what this grief's about.
With the moonlight grey and dreary,
Long ere waketh bird or bee,
Mary stands, with spirit weary,
Gazing out upon the sea.
There, until the west sun gloweth,
Lists she to each breeze that blows;
But the wind, tho' much it knoweth,
Telleth no one what it knows.
On a coast forlorn, forsaken,
Dug by hard and hasty hands,
Near a low cross rudely shapen
Rests a grave upon the sands;
Never wing of bird comes near it,
Nothing but the billows roar,
And a voice, the night stars hear it,
Sighing "Mary" nevermore.
Still until the west sun gloweth,
Mary lists each breeze that blows;
But the wind, tho' much it knoweth,
Telleth no one what it knows.
KING of the storm, arise!
Dost thou slumber on earth
Art thou hushed in the deeps?
Forth from thy lair arise!
Dost thou sleep in the hollow tree?
Art thou hid in the heart of the shell?
With couching zephyrs at thy feet,
Is thy home in the silent dell?
Come forth, and hear a mortal's praise,
King of the tempest, come.
I sing the praises of the wind,
No theme is surely better.
I sing of freedom-for no arm
The daring wind can fetter.
It raves and rages through the storm,
It lulls the babe to rest,
Trembles with love amid the trees
Or seeks the eagle's nest.
The wind, hurrah!
The wind is free as a man should be,
For the wind, hurrah! hurrah!
I sing the praises of the wind
No tyrant's hand oppresses.
I am not jealous when it dares
To lift my lady's tresses.
It owns a language without words,
A music of its own,
Plays without fingers on the harp
Which sighs in every tone.
The wind, hurrah!
Blow high, and fright the coward heart
Where dastard thoughts dishonour,
But for my love, oh, giant wind,
Blow low, blow softly on her.
I hear thy answer from the shore,
Thy echoes from the hill;
Blow high, blow low, thy voice I know,
And own thee master still.
The wind, hurrah!
The wind is free, &c.
AH! toss'd upon life's billow,
I'd been for many a day !—
The anguish of my pillow,
What human lips may say?
My soul sunk to despairing!
All dark below-above!
Till thou, the olive bearing,
Came gleaming like the dove!
The essence of all love,
In thy dear self I mark:
Bird-angel, then the dove-
Bird-angel, now the lark !
A new earth seem'd before me-
All sinless, bright and pure!
Thou did'st to faith restore me,
And teach me to endure !
My soul by care if riven,
Will to thy sweet voice hark!
Which seems to bring from heaven
Sweet music like the lark!
The essence of all love, &c.
I STOOD where the summer-tide, flowing,
Homeward the bark gaily bore;
But I saw the same ocean was throwing
Tokens of wreck on the shore:
While a voice 'mid the tide's song of gladness,
Sigh'd through its sweetness to me,
And it filled all my heart with a sadness,
By the blue sea.
I thought of brave sails homeward winging,
Tide-waves of memory bore
To the heart, while its waters were flinging
Tokens of wreck to the shore.
And I felt, as o'er memory nearer
Hope's freight with joy came to me-
Still the wreck'd and the broken were dearer,
By the blue sea.
[Music by VIRGINIA GABRIEL.
I OPENED the leaves of a book last night,
The dust on its cover lay dusk and brown,
As I held it toward the waning light
A withered flow'ret fell rustling down.
'Twas only the wraith of a woodland weed,
Which a dear dead hand in the days of old
Had placed 'twixt the pages she loved to read,
At the time when my vows of love were told;
And memories sweet but as sad as sweet,
Swift flooded mine eyes with regretful tears,
When the dry, dim harebell skimm'd past my feet
Recalling an hour from the vanished years.
Once more I was watching her deep-fring'd eyes,
Bent over the Tasso upon her knee,
And the fair face blushing with sweet surprise
At the passionate pleading that broke from me!
Oh! Ruby! my darling, the small white hand
Which gather'd the harebell was never my own,
But faded and pass'd to the far off land,
And I dreamt by the flickering flame alone.
I gather'd the flow'r and I closed the leaves,
And folded my hands in silent prayer,
That the reaper, Death, as he seeks his sheaves,
Might hasten the hour of our meeting there.
I LOVE to sail on the briny deep
When the moon is beaming bright,
When the stars their silent vigils keep,
Or beneath the sun's warm light.
|