A LOVE LETTER.

105

She said no matter what she said the lawyer grinned a smile,

And fixed his bold assuring glance upon me all the while.

Pa says he has a fine estate-a dwelling, rich and

rare,

And envies much the favored one who may be mistress there;

And Ma declares-though not a word of all she says is true

That he is vastly more polite-and handsomer than you!

Confound their antiquated whims!-I'm angry

even now,

The hot blood of indignant scorn is mounting to my brow

I hate their haughty favorite-I hate him and his gold

Though rich as ancient Croesus, with lands and wealth untold.

Oh, what is wealth where love is not-and what is yellow gold,

To soothe and warm the human heart, when sor rowful and cold,

As coldly flash the northern fires, to make the light more dreary,

So wealth and useless splendor gleam around the

lone and weary.

106

A LOVE LETTER.

I hate that favorite of Pa's-that lawyer, old and

grim

I'd strangle him before the priest, before I'd marry him

I care not for his country seat-and all his dusty

land

I hate him and his riches too-he shall not have my hand;

I hope you will not leave me, love-indeed you must not go,

For Pa would be in ecstasies, and I should miss you

SO.

Oh, come to me this very eve, before the moon has

set,

And we will wander in her light, and love each other yet;

And we will talk of by-gone times-our earlier hopes and fears

And know again the luxury of sympathizing years; And we will breathe our vows again, by every holy

star

And oh, we will be happy yet, and love in spite of

Pa

THE EXILE.

107

THE EXILE.

BY C. SHERRY.

[From the German of Schiller.]

FRESH in the morn is the living breeze!
And the sun beams bright

Through the swaying arms of the dark fir-trees,
And the tops of the mountains,

The forests, the fountains,

Redden and glow in a purple light.

The lark is abroad on her airy wing;

And the wakened woods with melody ring.

Blessed be the hour of early light!

When meadow and stream

With beauty gleam,

And the grass is touched with a silver white!
When the smallest leaf on the fruit-tree top

Is a beautiful nest where the pearl reposes; When showers of gems from the branches drop, And the zephyrs chat and play with the roses

Light smoke curls high o'er the city's wall,
Steeds are neighing in valley and stall,
And the early birds are far away,
To bathe their wings in the dazzling ray.

Joy to every thing beside,

Wo and ill myself betide.

Peace for me is-where? O, where?
In the grave—and only there!

The morn may waken brightly,
And purple tower and tree;

The evening air breathe lightly,

While men sleep dreamingly ;

But in morn's first blush will the death-flower

bloom,

And the night breeze sweep o'er my dreamless tomb!

SONNET.

BY ANNA M. WELLS.

THOU gorgeous cloud, in gold and purple furled,
In thy career, I read a mystery ;—

For, like the gilded hopes of this strange world,
Thou art delusion;-yet I gaze on thee,
As if thou wert what thou dost seem to be,

Rolling along the heavens,—a golden car.-
'T were fine, amid the stars, a wanderer free,
To lie within thy folds, and look afar
Over the teeming land, and sparkling sea !—

How pleasant from thy bosom to descry Yon monarch mountain that doth tower so high, A speck-diminished to the distant eye:And cataracts, that pall the ear and sight,

Twinkling, like tiny dew-drops in the light!

MAY

109

MAY.

BY J. G. PERCIVAL.

I FEEL a newer life in every gale;
The winds, that fan the flowers,

And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,
Tell of serener hours,-

Of hours that glide unfelt away

Beneath the sky of May.

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls

From his blue throne of air,

And where his whispering voice in music falls, Beauty is budding there;

The bright ones of the valley break

Their slumbers and awake.

The waving verdure rolls along the plain,

And the wide forest weaves,

To welcome back its playful mates again,
A canopy of leaves;

And from its darkening shadow floats
A gush of trembling notes.

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;
The tresses of the woods,

With the light dallying of the west-wind play,
And the full-brimming floods,

As gladly to their goal they run,
Hail their returning sun.