104 A LOVE LETTER. The victim falls, but knows not why. Well both might make a martyr break A LOVE LETTER. BY J. G. W. O, COME to me this very eve, for I am all alone, A weeping by my writing desk, and Pa and Ma have gone; They say that you are going off-that Pa has used you ill But if he has, depend upon 't, his daughter never will! We had that ugly lawyer here, to dine with us to day, And Ma took pains to speak to him in her parental way A LOVE LETTER. 105 She sud-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 aud 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! Through the swaying arms of the dark fir-trees. 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! With beauty gleam, And the grass is touched with a silver white: 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, 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? 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, Rolling along the heavens,—a golden car.— 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! |