SATURDAY AFTERNOON. N. P. WILLIS. LOVE to look on a scene like this, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, I have walked the world for four score years; And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, It is very true; it is very true; But my heart will leap at a scene like this, And I half renew my prime. Play on, play on; I am with you there, I hide with you in the fragrant hay, I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go; For the world, at best, is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low: But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, THE ALPINE FLOWERS. MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. ["This piece is, perhaps, the finest of Mrs. Sigourney's poetry. It is in some respects so sublime, that it forcibly reminds us of Coleridge's Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouny."George B. Cheever's Poets of America, p. 309.] EEK dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs! With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, senger On Mercy's missions trust your timid germ To the cold cradle of eternal snows? Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine And marks ye in your placid loveliness Fearless, yet frail-and, clasping his chill hands, EVENING. LORD BYRON. It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whisper'd word; And gentle winds, and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear. Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leaf a browner hue, As twilight melts beneath the moon away. |