LINES. 215 CANZONET. BY JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. THOU! oh thou, hast loved me,-dearest! Yes! ah, yes! the lorn and lonely, But, while theirs were all reposing 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! In those fond watchers who around thee stood, 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! Years hurried back, and as they swiftly rolled, But not forever-in the silent tomb, Where thou art laid, thy kindred shall find room; 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, 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, "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 They 'turn their silver lining out' And then down to the ocean's rim In wild disorder pass, |