O the warm sea sparkling over with waves by the swift wind

fann'd!

O the wide sky crystal clear, with bright islands of delicate

cloud!

Feel you the waking of life in the world lock'd so long in the frost?

Beautiful birds, with the light flashing bright from your banner-like wings!

Osprey, soaring so high, in the depths of the sky half lost! Medrake, hovering low where the sandpiper's sweet note rings!

Nothing am I to you, a blot perhaps on the day;

Nought do I add to your joy, but precious you are in my

sight;

And you seem on your glad wings to lift me up into the ether

away;

And the morning divine is more radiant because of your glorious flight.

BYRON FORCEYTHE WILLSON.

1837-1867.

THE ESTRAY.

"Now tell me, my merry woodman !
Why standest so aghast?"—
"My lord! 'twas a beautiful creature
That hath but just gone past!

“A creature,—what kind of a creature ?

66

"Nay, now, but I do not know."

Humph! what did it make you think of? "—
"The sunshine, or the snow."-

"I shall overtake my horse then."-
The woodman open'd his eye :

The gold fell all around him ;
And a rainbow spann'd the sky.

AUTUMN-SONG.

In Spring the poet is glad,

And in Summer the poet is gay; But in Autumn the poet is sad,

And has something sad to say:

For the wind moans in the wood,

And the leaf drops from the tree,

And the cold rain falls on the graves of the good,
And the mist comes up from the sea :

And the Autumn Songs of the poet's soul
Are set to the passionate grief

Of winds that sough and bells that toll
The dirge of the Falling Leaf.

WILLIAM WINTER.

1836

LOVE'S QUEEN.

He loves not well whose love is bold:

I would not have thee come too nigh.
The sun's gold would not seem pure gold
Unless the sun were in the sky :
To take him thence and chain him near
Would make his beauty disappear.

He keeps his state: do thou keep thine,
And shine upon me from afar !

So shall I bask in light divine

That falls from Love's own guiding-star : So shall thy eminence be high,

And so my passion shall not die.

But all my life shall reach its hands

Of lofty longing tow'rd thy face,

And be as one who speechless stands
In rapture at some perfect grace :
My love, my hope, my all shall be
To look to heaven and look to thee.

Thine eyes shall be the heavenly lights;

Thy voice shall be the summer breeze,
What time it sways, on moonlit nights,
The murmuring tops of leafy trees;
And I will touch thy beauteous form
In June's red roses rich and warm.

But thou-thyself-shalt not come down
From that pure region far above;
But keep thy throne and wear thy crown,
Queen of my heart and queen of love :
A monarch in thy realm complete,
And I a monarch at thy feet!

AFTER ALL.

The apples are ripe in the orchard,
The work of the reaper is done;
And the golden woodlands redden
In the blood of the dying sun.

At the cottage-door the grandsire
Sits, pale, in his easy chair,
While a gentle wind of twilight
Plays with his silver hair.

A woman is kneeling beside him;
A fair young head is press'd,
In the first wild passion of sorrow,
Against his agèd breast.

And far from over the distance

The faltering echoes come

Of the flying blast of trumpet

And the rattling roll of drum.

Then the grandsire speaks in a whisper : "The end no man can see,

But we give him to his Country,

And we give our prayers to Thee!"

The violets star the meadows,
The rose-buds fringe the door,

And over the grassy orchard

The pink-white blossoms pour.

But the grandsire's chair is empty,

The cottage is dark and still;

There's a nameless grave on the battle-field, And a new one under the hill.

And a pallid tearless woman

By the cold hearth sits alone; And the old clock in the corner Ticks on with a steady drone.

THE LAST SCENE.

Here she lieth, white and chill:
Put your hand upon her brow

Her sad heart is very still,

And she does not know you now.

Ah! the grave's a quiet bed:

She will sleep a pleasant sleep,

And the tears that you may shed

Will not wake her, therefore weep!

Weep! for you have wrought her woe;

Mourn she mourn'd and died for you:

Ah! too late we come to know

What is false and what is true.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
1836-

PALABRAS CARIÑOSAS.

Good-night! I have to say good-night
To such a host of peerless things!
Good-night unto that fragile hand
All queenly with its weight of rings,
Good-night to fond up-lifted eyes,
Good-night to chestnut braids of hair,
Good-night unto the perfect mouth
And all the sweetness nestled there!

The snowy hand detains me,-then
I'll have to say Good-night again.

But there will come a time, my Love!
When, if I read our stars aright,

I shall not linger by this porch

With my adieus. Till then, Good-night!
You wish the time were now?

You do not blush to wish it so?

And I.

You would have blush'd yourself to death
To own so much a year ago.

What! both these snowy hands? ah, then
I'll have to say Good-night again.

TIGER-LILIES.

I like not lady-slippers,

Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms,

Nor yet the flaky roses,

Red, or white as snow;

I like the chaliced lilies,

The heavy Eastern lilies,

The gorgeous tiger-lilies,

That in our garden grow.

For they are tall and slender;

Their mouths are dash'd with carmine;