THE SONGS OF HOME.

SING once more those dear, familiar

lays,

Whose gliding measure every bosom.
thrills,

And takes my heart back to the happy days
When first I sang them on my native hills!
With the fresh feelings of the olden times,
I hear them now upon a foreign shore
The simple music and the artless rhymes!
O, sing those dear familiar lays once more,
Those cheerful lays of other days,

O, sing those cheerful lays once more!

O, sing once more those joy-provoking strains, Which half forgotten, in my memory dwell ; They send the life-blood bounding through my veins,

And linger round me like a fairy spell. The songs of home are to the human heart Far dearer than the notes that song-birds

pour,

And of our very nature form a part;

Then sing those dear familiar lays once more !

Those cheerful lays of other days

O, sing those cheerful lays once more!

George P. Morris.

UNDER THE MOON.

F

ROM you and home I sleep afar,
Under the light of a lonely star,

Under the moon that marvels why

Away from you and home I lie.

Ah! love no language can declare,
The hovering warmth, the tender care,
The yielding, sweet, invisible air

That clasps your bosom, and fans your cheek
With breath of words I cannot speak,
Such love I give, such warmth impart :
The fragrance of a blossomed heart.

The moon looks in upon my bed,
Her yearning glory rays my head,
And round me clings, a lonely light,
The aureole of the winter night;
But in my heart a gentle pain,
A balmier splendor in my brain,
Lead me beyond the frosty plane,
Lead me afar to mellower skies,
Where under the moon a palace lies;
Where under the moon our bed is made,

Half in splendor and half in shade.

162

UNDER THE MOON.

The marble flags of the corridor
Through open windows meet the floor,
And Moorish arches in darkness rise
Against the gleam of the silver skies:
Beyond, in flakes of starry light,
A fountain prattles to the night,
And dusky cypresses, withdrawn
In silent conclave, stud the lawn;
While mystic woodlands, more remote,
In seas of airy silver float,

So hung in heaven, the stars that set
Seem glossy leaves the dew has wet
On topmost boughs, and sparkling yet.

In from the terraced garden blows
The spicy soul of the tuberose,

As if 'twere the odor of strains that pour
From the nightingale's throat as

before;

never

For he sings not now of rounding thorn,
He sings as the lark in the golden morn, —
A song of joy, a song of bliss,
Passionate notes that clasp and kiss,
Perfect peace and perfect pride,
Love rewarded and satisfied,
For I see you, darling, at my side.

I see you, darling, at my side:
I clasp you closer in sacred pride,

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT. 163

I shut my eyes, my senses fail,
Becalmed by Night's ambrosial gale.
Softer than dews the planets weep,
Descends a sweeter peace than sleep;
All wandering sounds and motions die
In the silent glory of the sky;

But, as the moon goes down the West,
Your heart against my happy breast,
Lays in its beating: Love is Rest.

Bayard Taylor.

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

FT, in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light

Of other days around me;

The smiles, the tears,

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimmed and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

164 OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

When I remember all

The friends, so linked together,
I've seen around me fall,

Like leaves in wintry weather;
I feel like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere slumbers chain has bound me,

Sad memory brings the light,

Of other days around me.

Thomas Moore.