"Playing?" But what hast thou done beside, What promise of morn is left unbroken,— That will find thee tired-but not with play! My mother's voice! how often creep its accents on my lonely hours! Like healing sent on wings of sleep, or dew to the unconscious flowers. I can forget her melting prayer while leaping pulses madly fly, But in the still, unbroken air, her gentle tones come stealing by. And years, and sin, and folly flee, And leave me at my mother's knee. The evening hours, the birds, the flowers, the starlight, moonlight,— all that's meet For heaven, in this lost world of ours,—remind me of her teachings sweet. My heart is harder, and perhaps my thoughtlessness hath drunk up tears; And there's a mildew in the lapse of a few swift and checkered His lines on Dawn are very choice-dewy and fragrant : Throw up the window. 'Tis a morn for life In its most subtle luxury. The air Is like a breathing from a rarer world; I know it has been trifling with the rose, Sends up its modest odour with the dew, S. J. CLARKE ("Grace Greenwood") is the writer of these glowing stanzas on Love's Sweet Memories : Canst thou forget, beloved, our first awaking From out the shadowy calms of doubts and dreams, A sky of rose and gold was o'er us glowing, Around us was the morning breath of May; Then met our soul-tides, thence together flowing, Then kissed our thought-waves, mingling on their way: Canst thou forget? * Canst thou forget the childlike heart-outpouring Of her whose fond faith knew no faltering fears? The lashes drooped to veil her eyes adoring, Her speaking silence, and her blissful tears— Canst thou forget? Canst thou forget, though all Love's spells be broken, And that last gift, affection's holiest token, The severed tress, which lay upon thy heart Here is CROLY's fine tribute to Domestic Love: O, love of loves!-to thy white hand is given When the babes cling around their father's knee; Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see. We close our Fifth Poetic Evening with with some of HORACE SMITH'S pictorial stanzas, entitled A Hymn to the Flowers:— Day-stars! that ope your eyes with morn, to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, And dew-drops on her holy altars sprinkle, As a libation! Ye matin-worshippers! who, bending lowly Throw from your Incense on high ! Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty Your voiceless lips, O Flowers! are living preachers, From loneliest nook! "Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," O, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender, Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope! Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! |