LINES.

215

CANZONET.

BY JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

THOU! oh thou, hast loved me,-dearest!
When none other cared for me;-
When my fortune seemed severest,
Kindest was the smile from thee!

Yes! ah, yes! the lorn and lonely,
Hollow hearts of worldlings shun;-
Theirs are flowers of day, which only
Open when they see the sun:

But, while theirs were all reposing
In the absence of the light,—
Like the cereus, thine unclosing
Gave its sweetness to the night!

LINES.

BY CHARLES SPRAGUE.

I KNEW that we must part-day after day, I saw the dread Destroyer win his way; That hollow cough first rang the fatal knell, As on my ear its prophet-warning fell; Feeble and slow thy once light footstep grew, Thy wasting cheek put on death's pallid hue, Thy thin, hot hand to mine more weakly clung,

Each sweet' Good night' fell fainter from thy

tongue;

I knew that we must part-no power could save Thy quiet goodness from an early grave;

Those eyes so dull, though kind each glance they

cast,

Looking a sister's fondness to the last;

Thy lips so pale, that gently pressed my cheek, Thy voice-alas! thou couldst but try to speak ;All told thy doom, I felt it at my heart,

The shaft had struck-I knew that we must part.

And we have parted, MARY-thou art gone!
Gone in thine innocence, meek-suffering one.
Thy weary spirit breathed itself to sleep
So peacefully, it seemed a sin to weep,

In those fond watchers who around thee stood,
And felt, even then, that God, even then, was good.
Like stars that struggle through the clouds of night,
Thine eyes one moment caught a glorious light,
As if to thee, in that dread hour, 't were given
To know on earth what faith believes of Heaven;
Then like tired breezes didst thou sink to rest,
Nor one, one pang the awful change confessed.
Death stole in softness o'er that lovely face,
And touched each feature with a newborn grace;
On cheek and brow unearthly beauty lay,
And told that life's poor cares had passed away

In my last hour be Heaven so kind to me,

I ask no more than this-to die like thee.

But we have parted, MARY-thou art dead!
On its last resting-place I laid thy head,
Then by thy coffin-side knelt down, and took
A brother's farewell kiss and farewell look;
Those marble lips no kindred kiss returned;
From those veiled orbs no glance responsive burned;
Ah! then I felt that thou hadst passed away,
That the sweet face I gazed on was but clay;
And then came Memory with her busy throng
Of tender images, forgotten long;

Years hurried back, and as they swiftly rolled,
I saw thee, heard thee, as in days of old;
Sad and more sad each sacred feeling grew,
Manhood was moved, and sorrow claimed her due;
Thick, thick and fast the burning tear-drops started,
I turned away-and felt that we had parted.

But not forever-in the silent tomb,

Where thou art laid, thy kindred shall find room;
A little while, a few short years of pain,
And, one by one, we'll come to thee again;
The kind old Father shall seek out the place,
And rest with thee, the youngest of his race;
The dear, dear Mother, bent with age and grief,
Shall lay her head by thine, in sweet relief;
Sister and Brother, and that faithful Friend,
True from the first and tender to the end,
All, all, in His good time, who placed us here,
To live, to love, to die and disappear,

Shall come and make their quiet bed with thee,

218

A MORNING HYMN.

Beneath the shadow of that spreading tree;

With thee to sleep, through death's long dreamless night,

With thee rise up, and bless the morning light.

A MORNING HYMN.

BY W. G. CLARK.

"Tis the rich hour, when gladsome waters leaping,
Smile in the beauty of the gorgeous sky:
When golden clouds, o'er distant summits sleeping,
Like spirit-islands, bathed in glory lie ;—
When to the South, to swelling gem-buds given,
Come the bland kisses of the loving air,

Burdened with balm, and wandering forth in heaven,

While sounds of brooks and birds are mingling there.

Wake! ye that slumber! and a glorious vision,
Richer than fancy to the mind can bring,
Will on the observant eye in peace have risen

"Till gushes from the heart, Affection's spring: For the broad sunlight, in rich floods descending, Each hill and vale paints deep in quivering gold, Gay light and music in one flow are blending,

Where amber clouds their graceful skirts unfold.

NIGHT WINDS.

219

And while from vale to vale, like incense given, Sounds on the breeze of morn the Sabbath bell, The chastened soul may lift its dream to heaven Till the rapt heart seems kindling in the spell; While, touched with day-beams, grove, and fount and river,

In the soft beauty of Contentment sleep, How should man conquer Passion's stormy fever And drink of peacefulness so pure and deep?

Why, when the anthems of the streams are swelling, And the fresh blossoms odorous tribute yield :When gales delicious of sweet buds are telling, That humbly blooming, bend in every field? Why should Man's heart no pure emotions cherishWhy should its reverence and affection die ;When fragile birds and blossoms, born to perish, Make glad the chambers of the open sky!

NIGHT WINDS.

BY HENRY LANCE.

THE rifted clouds are flying fast
Across the moonlit sky:

They 'turn their silver lining out'
A moment on the eye,

And then down to the ocean's rim

In wild disorder pass,