The lark, his lay who trill'd all day,
Sits hush'd his partner nigh;
Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour:
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of love, all stars above,
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
Now high and low the influence know:
But where is County Guy?
THE LYRIC OF LOVE.
[GERALD MASSEY.]
Heaven hath its crown of stars, the Earth
Her glory-robe of flowers;
The grand old woods have music,
Green leaves, and silver showers;
The birds have homes where honey blooms
In beauty bend above;
High-yearning hearts their rainbow dream,
And we, Sweet! we have love.
There's sorrow for the suffering poor
On Misery's bosom nurst,
Rich robes for ragged souls, and crowns
For branded brows Cain-cursed;
But Cherubim, with clasping wings,
Ever about us be,
And happiest of God's happy things,
There's love for you and me!
We walk not with the jewelled great,
Where Love's dear name is sold;
Yet we have wealth we would not give
For all their world of gold.
We revel not in corn or wine,
Yet have we, from above,
Manna divine; then we'll not pine,
Do we not live and love?
Thy lips, that kiss till death, have turned
Life's water into wine;
The sweet life melting through thy looks
Hath made my life divine;
All Love's dear promise hath been kept
Since thou to me wert given-
A ladder for my soul to climb,
And summer high in heaven.
I know, dear heart! in our bright lot
May mingle tears and sorrow;
Well, Love's glad rainbow's built from tears
To-day, with smiles to-morrow!
The sunshine from our sky may die,
The greenness from life's tree;
But ever, 'mid the scathe and storm,
Thy nest shall sheltered be!
I see thee! Ararat of my life,
Thou smil'st the waves above;
Thou hail'st me Victor in the strife,
And beckon'st me with love!
The world may never know, dear heart,
Half what I've found in thee!
But, though nought to the world, dear heart,
Thou'rt all the world to me!
DO I FORGET THEE!
[THOMAS JOHN OUSELEY.]
Go, in the summer when the morning breaketh,
And all around is lull'd midst placid light;
When the sweet tiny field-flower awaketh,
And softly sighs its perfume exquisite.
Behold the lark-up to the clear sky winging,
Trilling aloud his luscious free-born notes;
From his bright speckled breast the dew-drops flinging,
Away, away, till lost to sight, he floats.
Doth not the field-flower love the coming morning,
Unclosing every leaf to drink the light?
Doth not the lark's eye swell to meet the dawning,
His wings spread strong, to reach his airy height?
If flower and bird change not, why question me-
Do I forget thee?
Go, in the noon-tide, when the sun is gleaming,
To the deep forest-watch the panting deer
Under the trees umbrageous, watchful dreaming,
Timidly startling at each sound they hear;
List to the throstle and the blackbird singing,
Whilst the calm breathing wind just rocks the leaves,
The emerald wood with melody is ringing,
As light with shade and music interweaves.
Do not the shy deer court the boughs o'ershading,
Their wide hot nostrils snuff the welcome bowers?
The songsters of the grove are serenading,
Each to its mate the joyful tiding pours:
If such as these change not, why question me
Go, in the evening, watch the streamlet flowing,
O'er pebbly banks, through green and velvet meads;
The sportive fish, in gold and silver glowing,
Plash in their crystal home as day recedes;
And mark the sun-flower, when the west is streaming
With rainbow clouds of light, as Sol retires,
Turneth its face to catch his last smile beaming,
Then bowing to its grave, the earth, expires.
Do not the sportive fish, when day's descending,
Leap to the streamlet's bosom in their play?
Doth not the sun-flower-faithful in its tending,
Linger to catch the last departing ray?
Beloved, if these change not, why question me
MY OWN FIRESIDE.
[ALARIC A. WATTS.]
My own fireside! Those simple words
Can bid the sweetest dreams arise;
Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,
And fill with tears of joy mine eyes.
What is there my wild heart can prize
That doth not in thy sphere abide,
Haunt of my home-bred sympathies,
My own-my own fireside!
A gentle form is near me now,
A small white hand is placed in mine;
I gaze upon her placid brow,
And ask, What joys can equal thine?
A babe, whose beauty's half divine,
In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide;
Where may love seek a fitter shrine
Than thou-my own fireside?
Shrine of my household deities-
Bright scene of home's unsullied joys!
To thee my burthened spirit flies
When fortune frowns or care annoys.
Thine is the bliss that never cloys,
The smile whose truth has oft been tried
What, then, are this world's tinsel joys
To thee-my own fireside?
Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet,
That bid my thoughts be all of thee,
Thus ever guide my wandering feet
To thy heart-soothing sanctuary!
Whate'er my future years may be-
Let joy or grief my fate betide-
Be still an Eden bright to me,
My own-my own fireside!
THE SONG OF THE LAST LEAF.
[RICHARD ROWLEY.]
Oh! why was I thus left companionless, dreary,
To bear the stark coldness of winter alone-
To pine on in solitude, hopeless and weary,
And sigh o'er bright scenes that for ever have flown?
Oh! how sweet was the spring-time, when sunbeams were dancing,
In gold-colour'd raiments our bowers between,
Till lured by our beauty they ceased from their glancing, And slumber'd in peace on our bosoms of green!
Oh! how gay was the summer, when flowers were springing,
Uplifting their heads all bespangled with dew, While from bosoms of softness their perfumes were flinging,
As they waved in their splendour of scarlet and blue.
And the breeze as it swept through their bells, meekly bending,
Bore a murmuring sound from their elfin-like throng, Like th' sweet dying notes, when young spirits are blending
Their voices and harps in the far land of song.
But the spring and the summer pass'd laughing before
Nor paused in the flight their soft rainbow-like wings; Then the dark breath of autumn swept blightingly
And smote to the earth all her loveliest things.
I gazed on them falling, with sorrowful anguish-
I felt, as each vanish'd, a lonelier doom;
Oh! how hard 'tis to live when we live but to languish
O'er friends that in silence have gone to the tomb.
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