"Forbid it, Heaven!" the hermit cried, "Turn, Angelina, ever dear, Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And shall we never, never part, No, never from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true; The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Goldsmith. H A MORNING SONG. ARK, hark! the lark at Heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, The steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin With everything that pretty bin, Arise, arise! Shakspeare. TH MOUNTAIN SCENERY. HE western waves of ebbing day Where twined the path, in shadow hid, Crests-wild as pagod ever deck'd, Nor were those earth-born castles bare, Boon Nature scatter'd, free and wild, Group'd their dark hues with every stain With boughs that quaked at every breath, And higher yet the pine-tree hung Scott. A MISS BLANCHE'S ROSE. ND you are the poet, and so you want Something-what is it--a theme or fancy? Something or other the muse won't grant In your old poetical necromancy. Why, one-half of you poets—you can't denyDon't know the muse when you chance to meet her, But sit in your attics and mope and sigh For a faineant goddess to drop from the sky, When flesh and blood may be standing by, Quite at your service, should you but greet her. What if I told you my own romance? Women are poets if you so take them, One-third poet-the rest what chance Of man and marriage may choose to make them. Give me ten minutes before you goHere at the window we'll sit together, Watching the currents that ebb and flow, Watching the world as it drifts below, Up the hot avenue's dusty glowIsn't it pleasant, this bright June weather? Well, it was after the war broke out, And I was a school girl fresh from Paris, Still, it was stupid. Ratata-tat? Those were the sounds of that battle summer, Till the earth seemed a parchment, round and flat, And every foot-fall tap of a drummer; And day by day down the avenue went Cavalry, infantry, all together, Till my pitying angel one day sent None of our dandy warriors they; Men from the West, but where I know not; Haggard and travel-stained, worn and grey, With never a ribbon, or lace, or bow-knot; And I opened the window, and leaning there I felt in their presence the free wood's blowing; My neck, and shoulders, and arms were bare— I did not dream they might think me fairBut I had some flowers that night in my hair, And here, in my bosom, a red rose glowing. And I looked from the window along the line, Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine, And a dark face grew from the darkening column; And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair, Then I drew back quickly-there came a cheer, Shoulder to shoulder and side to side, But beaming above them the rose-my pride- And I leaned from the window and watched my rose, I did not go as a nurse to the war- You smile, O poet, and what do you? You lean from the windows, and watch Life's column Trampling and struggling through dust and dew, Filled with its purpose grave and solemn; And an act, a gesture, a face-who knows? Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you, And you pluck from your bosom that verse that grow, And down it flies like my red red rose, And sit and dream as away it goes, you And think that your duty is done-now don't you? |