Imagini ale paginilor

The jasmin from outside would meet,
And wreathe her fragrant hair.
We'll miss her when we gather round
Our blazing hearth at night,
When ancient memories abound,
Or hopes where all unite,
And pleasant talk of years to come,
Those years our fancies frame.
Ah! she has now another home,
And bears another name.

Her heart is not with our old hall,
Nor with the things of yore;
And yet, methinks she must recall
What was so dear before.

She wept to leave the fond roof where
She had been loved so long,
Though glad the peal upon the air,
And gay the bridal throng.

Yes, memory has honey cells,

And some of them are ours;

For in the sweetest of them dwells
The dream of early hours.
The hearth, the hall, the window-seat,
Will bring us to her mind;

In yon wide world she cannot meet
All that she left behind.

Loving, and loved, her own sweet will
It was, that made her fate;

She has a fairy home; but still

Our own seems desolate.

We may not wish her back again,

Not for her own dear sake:

Oh, love! to form one happy chain,
How many thou must break!




I CAME,-but she was gone.

In her fair home,

There lay her lute, just as she touched it last,

At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups Filled with pure fragrance. On her favorite seat Lay the still open work-box, and that book Which last she read, its penciled margin marked By an ill-quoted passage, traced, perchance, With hand unconscious, while her lover spake That dialect, which brings forgetfulness

Of all beside. It was the cherished home, Where from her childhood she had been the star Of hope and joy.

I came,—and she was gone.

Yet I had seen her from the altar led,

With silvery vail but slightly swept aside,

The fresh, young rose-bud deepening in her cheek,
And on her brow the sweet and solemn thought
Of one who gives a priceless gift away.
And there was silence 'mid the gathered throng.
The stranger, and the hard of heart, did draw
Their breath suppressed, to see the mother's lip
Turn ghastly pale, and the majestic sire
Shrink as with smothered sorrow,
when he gave
His darling to an untried guardianship,
And to a far off clime.

Haply his thought

Traversed the grass-grown prairies, and the shore
Of the cold lakes; or those o'erhanging cliffs
And pathless mountain tops, that rose to bar
Her log-reared mansion from the anxious eye
Of kindred and of friend. Even triflers felt
How strong and beautiful is woman's love,
That, taking in its hand its thornless joys,
The tenderest melodies of tuneful years,
Yea! and its own life also, lays them all,
Meek and unblenching, on a mortal's breast,
Reserving naught, save that unspoken hope
Which hath its root in God.

Mock not with mirth

A scene like this, ye laughter-loving ones!
The licensed jester's lip, the dancer's heel,
What do they here?

Joy, serious and sublime,

Such as doth nerve the energies of prayer,

Should swell the bosom, when a maiden's hand,

Filled with life's dewy flow'rets, girdeth on
That harness, which the ministry of Death
Alone unlooseth, but whose fearful power
May stamp the sentence of Eternity.




WHY do I weep ?-To leave the vine
Whose clusters o'er me bend;
The myrtle, yet, oh! call it mine!
The flowers I loved to tend.
A thousand thoughts of all things dear,
Like shadows o'er me sweep;
I leave my sunny childhood here;
Oh, therefore let me weep!

I leave thee, sister! We have played
Through many a joyous hour,

Where the silvery green of the olive shade
Hung dim o'er fount and bower.

Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore,

In song, in prayer, in sleep,
Have been, as we may be no more;
Kind sister, let me weep!

I leave thee, father! Eve's bright moon
Must now light other feet,

With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune,

Thy homeward step to greet.

Thou, in whose voice, to bless thy child

Lay tones of love so deep,

Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled;
I leave thee! let me weep!

Mother! I leave thee! On thy breast,

Pouring out joy and woe,

I have found that holy place of rest

Still changeless-yet I go!

Lips, that have lulled me with your strain,
Eyes, that have watched my sleep!

Will earth give love like yours again?
Sweet mother! let me weep!




WE are all here!

Father, mother,

Sister, brother,

All who hold each other dear.
Each chair is filled; we're all at home:
To-night, let no cold stranger come:
It is not often thus around

Our old familiar hearth we're found:
Bless then the meeting and the spot;
For once, be every care forgot;
Let gentle Peace assert her power,
And kind Affection rule the hour;
We're all-all here.

We're not all here!

Some are away, the dead ones dear,
Who thronged with us this ancient hearth
gave the hour to guiltless mirth.
Fate, with a stern relentless hand,
Looked in and thinned our little band:
Some, like a night-flash, passed away,
And some sank lingering day by day;
The quiet grave-yard-some lie there-
And cruel Ocean has his share;

We're not all here.

We are all here!

Even they, the dead-though dead, so dear, Fond Memory, to her duty true,

Brings back their faded forms to view.
How life-like through the mist of years,
Each well-remembered face appears!
We see them as in times long past,
From each to each kind looks are cast;
We hear their words, their smiles behold,
They're round us, as they were of old—
We are all here.

We are all here!

Father, mother,

Sister, brother,

You that I love with love so dear.

This may not long of us be said;

Soon must we join the gathered dead,
And by the hearth we now sit round,
Some other circle will be found.
Oh! then, that wisdom may we know,
Which yields a life of peace below;
So, in the world to follow this,
May each repeat, in words of bliss,
We're all-all-here!—




THERE is unwritten music. The world is full of it. I hear it every hour that I wake, and my waking sense is surpassed by my sleeping, though that is a mystery. There is no sound of simple nature that is not music. It is all God's work, and therefore harmony. You may mingle, and divide, and strengthen the passages of its great anthem, and it is still melody-melody.

The low winds of summer blow over the waterfalls and the brooks, and bring their voices to your ear, as if their sweetness were linked by an accurate finger; yet the wind is but a fitful player; and you may go out when the tempest is up, and hear the strong trees moaning as they lean before it, and the long grass hissing as it sweeps through, and its own solemn monotony over all,—and the dimple of that same brook, and the waterfall's unaltered base shall still reach you in the intervals of its power, as much in harmony as before, and as much a part of its perfect and perpetual hymn. There is no accident of nature's causing which can bring in discord. The loosened rock may fall into the abyss, and the overblown tree rush down through the branches of the wood, and the thunder peal awfully in the sky; and sudden and violent as these changes seem, their tumult goes up with the sound of winds and waters, and the exquisite ear of the musician can detect no jar.

It is not mere poetry to talk of the "voices of summer." It is the day time of the year, and its myriad influences are audibly at work. Even by night, you may lay your ear to the ground, and hear that faintest of murmurs, the sound of grow

« ÎnapoiContinuă »