TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, And I'll forgive your Highland chief, 'T was vain; the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing; The waters wild went o'er his child, — TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.- Bryant. THOU blossom bright with autumn dew, Thou comest not when violets lean Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye A flower from its cerulean wall. 103 I would that thus, when I shall see MY DOVES. - Miss Barrett. My little doves have left a nest Whose leaves fantastic take their rest Or motion from the sea; Forever there the sea winds go, With sunlit faces, to and fro. The tropic flowers looked up to it, And God them taught, at every close Of water far, and wind, And lifted leaf, to interpose Their chanting voices kind; Interpreting that love must be Fit ministers of living loves Theirs hath the calmest sound, - MY DOVES. My little doves were taken away The sky and wave by warmth and blue! And now, within the city prison With sudden upward look they listen Nor lapse of water, swell of breeze, The stir without, the glow of passion,- The gold and silver's dreary clashing The wheeléd pomp, the pauper tread,- Yet still, as on my human hand Their chant is soft as on the nest For love, that stirred it in their breast, And, 'neath the city's shade, can keep The well of music clear and deep. 105 And love, that keeps the music, fills So teach ye me the wisest part, And vocal with such songs as own To me fair memories belong Of scenes that erst did bless; For no regret, - but present song, And lasting thankfulness,And very soon to break away, Like types, in purer things than they I will have hopes that cannot fade, My spirit and my God shall be boundless sea. TROUBADOUR SONG.-Mrs. Hemans. THE warrior crossed the ocean's foam HUMAN FRAILTY. His voice was heard where javelin-showers Her step was 'midst the summer-flowers, His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, Yet a thousand arrows passed him by, As roses die, when the blast is come HUMAN FRAILTY.- Couper. WEAK and irresolute is man, The bow well bent and smart the spring, Vice seems already slain; But passion rudely snaps the string, 107 |