Thy gentle eyes are not so bright As when I woo'd thee first, Yet still they have the same sweet light When all without looks dark and cold, Nor greet me as they did of old, I feel I am not lone; For thou, my love, art aye the same, And looks and deeds thy faith proclaim- A shadow comes across my heart, And leave me desolate; For as the wretch who treads alone If thou wert dead, the flowers might spring, The merry birds might soar and sing, Before me dark Despair would rise, And spread a pall o'er earth and skies, If shone no more thy loving eyes, My beautiful, my wife! And those dear eyes have shone through tears, Still closer seem'd to bind Thy pure and trusting heart to mine. When at the eventide I see My children throng around, And know the love of them and thee, To earth, despite of every care : The only fountain in the wilderness of life, where man drinks of waters totally unmixed with bitterness, is that which gushes for him in the calm and shady recess of domestic life. Pleasures may heat the heart into artificial excitement, ambition may delude it with its golden dreams, war may eradicate its fine fibres, and diminish its sensitiveness, but it is only domestic love that can render it truly happy.-Scrap Book. THE DYING SOLDIER. FROM FISHER'S DRAWING ROOM SCRAP BOOK." A SOLDIER of the Legion lay down in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb'd away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier falter'd, as he took that comrade's hand; And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message, and a token, to some distant friend of mine, For I was born at Bingen,-at Bingen on the Rhine. Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around, To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun: And 'midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts the last of many scars: But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, And one had come from Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine. Tell my mother, that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage : For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leapt forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild! And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine On the cottage-wall at Bingen, calm Bingen on the Rhine. There's another-not a sister-in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry,too fond for idle scorning, Oh! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her the last night of my life-(for ere this moon be risen, My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison) I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine. I saw the blue Rhine sweep along-I heard or seem'd to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we pass'd with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remember'd walk; And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly, in mine,But we'll meet no more at Bingen, loved Bingen on the Rhine!" His voice grew faint and hoarser,-his grasp was childish weak, His eyes put on a dying look,-he sigh'd and ceased to speak : His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled, The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead! R |