Once again the night dropped round them--night so | And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of holy and so calm That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm. dread. And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stood On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the Where the drummer-boy was lying in that partial solirest, Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast. tude. They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store, Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they in sleep; E'en his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber calm and deep. bore. Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears, For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish the face, And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace fears. And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless re- Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lampose, bent flame. Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of foes. sorest need, And the broken drum beside him all his life's short And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the story told : How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled. deed. But they smiled and kissed each other when their new strange task was o'er, Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of And the form that lay before them its unwonted garstars, While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet ments wore. Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out, Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves whispering low, Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow? that lay about. But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done, Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look And in crimson pomp the morning heralded again the round, As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground, sun. Gently then those little maidens-they were children of our foes Came two little maidens-sisters-with a light and Laid the body of our drummer-boy to undisturbed re hasty tread, THOU'RT ALL THE WORLD TO ME. EAVEN hath its crown of stars, the earth Her glory-robe of flowers The sea its gems-the grand old woods Their songs and greening showers: The birds have homes, where leaves and blooms In beauty wreathe above; High yearning hearts, their rainbow-dream And we, sweet! we have love. We walk not with the jewell'd great, Where love's aear name is sold; Yet have we wealth we would not give For all their world of gold! We revel not in corn and wine, Yet have we from above Manna divine, and we'll not pine, While we may live and love. Cherubim, with clasping wings, Ever about us be, And, happiest of God's happy things, There's love for you and me! Thy lips, that kiss to death, have turn'd I ife's water into wine; The sweet life melting through thy looks, Hath made my life divine. All love's dear promise hath been kept, A ladder for my soul to climb, And summer high in heaven. I know, dear heart! that in our lot May mingle tears and sorrow: But, love's rich rainbow's built from tears The sunshine from our sky may die, The world may never know, dear heart! But, though naught to the world, dear heart! GERALD MASSEY. THE QUEEN. ES, wife, I'd be a thronéd king, Poor wish! O, wife, a queen you are, How loyal are my thoughts by day! WILLIAM COX BENNETT THE VALE OF AVOCA. HERE is not in this wide world a valley so sweet As that vale, in whose bosom the bright O, the last ray of feeling and life must depart Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Who made ev'ry dear scene of enchantment mor dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet Vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best; Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. THOMAS MOORK. Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her high-born kinsmen came In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, That the wind came out of the cloud by night, But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes And so all the night-time, I lie down by the side In her tomb by the sounding sea. EDGAR ALLEN POE. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Composed by Burns on the anniversary of the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell. HOU lingering star, with lessening ray, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 't was our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? ROBERT BURN THE SAILOR'S FAREWELL. HE topsails shiver in the wind, The ship she casts to sea; But yet my soul, my heart, my mind, For though thy sailor's bound afar ; Should landmen flatter when we're sailed, If Cupid fill'd his sails: Thou art the compass of my soul, Which steers my heart from pole to pole. Sirens in ev'ry port we meet, More fell than rocks and waves; These are our cares; but if you're kind EDWARD THOMPSON Yet the sin is on us both; Time to dance is not to woo; Learn to win a lady's faith Lead her from the festive boards, By your truth she shall be true, Ever true, as wives of yore; And her "yes," once said to you, Shall be yes forevermore. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. THE HEART'S DEVOTION. ELL him, for years I never nursed a thought That was not his;-that on his wandering way Daily and nightly, poured a mourner's prayers. Tell him ev'n now that I would rather share His lowliest lot-walk by his side, an outcast― Work for him, beg with him-live upon the light Of one kind smile from him, than wear the crown The Bourbon lost. EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. NOT OURS THE VOWS. OT ours the vows of such as plight But we have loved as those who tread The thorny path of sorrow, With clouds above, and cause to dread Yet deeper gloom to-morrow That thorny path, those storny skie Have drawn our spirits nearer : And rendered us, by sorrow's ties, Each to the other dearer. Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, With mirth and joy may perish; That to which darker hours gave birth Still more and more we cherish. It looks beyond the clouds of time, And through death's shadow portal Made by adversity sublime, By faith and hope immortal. BERNAK SAS ON. HAD IA HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED. AD I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne'er could injure you; For though your tongue no promise claimed, To you no soul shall bear deceit, No stranger offer wrong; But friends in all the aged you'll meet. For when they learn that you have blest They'll bid aspiring passion rest, And act a brother's part. Then, lady, dread not here deceit, Nor fear to suffer wrong; For friends in all the aged you'll meet, RICHARD BRINSLEY SHEridan. B My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow-tree. Here, upon my true-love's grave, My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Come with acorn cup and thorn Gone to his death-bed, THOMAS CHATTERTON. THE HARE-BELL. Y sylvan waves that westward flow A star look'd from the paler sky- By casement hid, the flowers among, A barque across the river drew- Amidst the twilight falling. She saw no star, she saw no flower- Amidst the shades descending. And sorrow without ending. The hare-bell droop'd beneath the dew, CHARLES SWAD |