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HERE'S a beautiful face in the silent air
The dimpled hand and ringlet of gold, Lie low in a marble sleep;
I stretch my hand for a clasp of old;
There's a sinless brow with a radiant crown,
There's a smile where never a shade comes now,
Ah, well! and summer is come again,
But oh! it sounds like a sob of pain
O'er the hearts of the world's great throngs.
There's a beautiful region above the skies,
For I know I shall find my treasure there,
My fairest child, I have no song to give you, No lark could pipe to skies so dull and grey, Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: And so make life, death, and that vast for ever One grand, sweet song.
EDWARD COATE PINKNEY.
OOK out upon the stars, my love,
And shame them with thine eyes,
There hang more destinies.
Of blending shades and light;
Sleep not! thine image wakes for aye
Sleep not!--from her soft sleep should fly,
Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break,
And make this darkness gay
With looks, whose brightness well might make
F. G. HALLECK.
HOU com 'st in beauty, on my gaze at last,
As by the poet borne, on unseen wing, I breathed, in fancy, 'neath thy cloudless skies, The Summer's air, and heard her echoed harmonies.
I then but dreamed: thou art before me now,
I've stood upon the wooded mountain's brow,
And now, where winds thy river's greenest shore,
And winds, as soft and sweet as ever bore
The fragrance of wild flowers through sun and shade, Are singing in the trees, whose low boughs press my head.
Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power
Had woven, had he gazed one sunny hour
With more of truth, and made each rock and tree
Known like old friends, and greeted from afar:
In the dark legends of thy border war,
With woes of deeper tint than his own Gertrude's are.
But where are they, the beings of the mind,
The bard's creations, molded not of clay,
Young Gertrude, Albert, Waldegrave-where are they?
With manners, like their roads, a little rough,
And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming, tho' tough.
Judge Hallenbach, who keeps the toll-bridge gate,
Of Wyoming; like him, in church and state,
To frighten flocks of crows and blackbirds from the grain.
For he would look particularly droll
In his "Iberian boot" and "Spanish plume,"
And be the wonder of each Christian soul,