By T. HAYNES BAYLY.
I THANK you for that downcast look,
And for that blushing cheek;
I would not have you raise your eyes,
I would not have you speak :
Though mute, I deem you eloquent,
I ask no other sign,
While thus your little hand remains
Confidingly in mine.
I know you fain would hide from me
The tell-tale tears that steal
Unbidden forth, and half betray
The anxious fears
From friends long tried and dearly loved
The plighted bride must part;
Then freely weep-I could not love
A cold unfeeling heart.
You sigh to leave your mother's roof,
Though on my suit she smiled,
And, spurning ev'ry selfish thought,
Gave up her darling child :
Sigh not for her, she now may claim
Kind deeds from more than one;
She'll gaze upon her daughter's smiles,
Supported by her son!
I thank you for that look-it speaks
Reliance on my truth;
And never shall unkindness wound
Your unsuspecting youth:
If fate should frown, and anxious thoughts
Oppress your husband's mind,
Oh! never fear to cling to me,—
I could not be unkind.
A SOUND comes on the rising breeze,
A sweet and lovely sound!
Piercing the tumult of the seas,
That wildly dash around.
From land, from sunny land, it comes,
From hills with murmuring trees,
From paths by still and happy homes-
That sweet sound on the breeze!
Why should its faint and passing sigh
Thus bid my quick pulse leap?
-No part in Earth's glad melody
Is mine upon the deep.
Yet blessing, blessing on the spot
Whence those rich breathings flow!
Kind hearts, although they know me not,
Like mine must beat and glow.
And blessings, from the bark that roams O'er solitary seas,
To those that far in happy homes
Give sweet sounds to the breeze!
By RICHARD HOWITT.
THOU art lovelier than the coming
Of the fairest flowers of spring,
When the wild bee wanders humming,
Like a bless'd fairy thing:
Thou art lovelier than the breaking
Of orient crimson'd morn,
When the gentlest winds are shaking
The dewdrops from the thorn.
I have seen the wild flowers springing,
In wood, and field, and glen,
Where a thousand birds were singing,
And my thoughts were of thee then;
For there's nothing gladsome round me,
Or beautiful to see,
Since thy beauty's spell has bound me,
But is eloquent of thee.
MARY, since first I knew thee, to this hour,
My love hath deepened, with my wiser sense
Of what in woman is to reverence:
Thy clear heart, fresh as e'er was forest flower,
Still opens more to me its beauteous dower :-
But let praise hush-Love asks no evidence
To prove itself well-placed: we know not whence
It gleans the straws that thatch its humble bower:
We can but say we found it in the heart,
Spring of all sweetest thoughts, arch foe of blame,
Sower of flowers in the dusty mart,
Pure vestal of the poet's holy flame,-
This is enough, and we have done our part
If we but keep it spotless as it came.
A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT.
By W. GLASSFORD BELL.
THEY'RE stepping off, the friends I knew,
They're going one by one;
They're taking wives to tame their lives,
Their jovial days are done;
I can't get one old crony now
To join me in a spree ;
They've all grown grave, domestic men,
They look askance on me.
I hate to see them sober'd down,
The merry boys and true,
I hate to hear them sneering now
At pictures fancy drew;
I care not for their married cheer,
Their puddings and their soups,
And middle-aged relations round,
In formidable groups.
And though their wife perchance may have
A comely sort of face,
And at the table's upper end
Conduct herself with grace,
I hate the prim reserve that reigns,
The caution and the state,
I hate to see my friend grow
Of furniture and plate.
Oh, give me back the days again,
When we have wander'd free,
And stolen the dew from every flower,
The fruit from every tree;
The friends I loved they will not come,
They've all deserted me ;
They sit at home and toast their toes,
Look stupid and sip tea.
Alas! alas! for years gone by,
And for the friends I've lost;
When no warm feeling of the heart
Was chill'd by early frost.
If these be Hymen's vaunted joys,
I'd have him shun my door,
Unless he quench his torch, and live
Henceforth a bachelor.
NEAR THEE.
By CHARLES SWAIN.
I WOULD be with thee-near thee-ever near thee-
Watching thee ever, as the angels are—
Still seeking with my spirit-power to cheer thee,
And then to see me, but as some bright star,
Knowing me not, but yet ofttimes perceiving
That when thou gazest I still brighter grow,
Beaming and trembling-like some bosom heaving
With all it knows, yet would not have thee know.
I would be with thee-fond, yet silent ever,
Nor break the spell in which my soul is bound:
Mirror'd within thee as within a river:
A flower upon thy breast, and thou the ground!
That, when I died and unto earth return'd,
Our natures never more might parted be:
Within thy being all mine own inurn'd—
Life, bloom and beauty, all absorbed in thee!
From a recently published volume entitled May Carols, by AUBREY DE VERE.
WHEN April's sudden sunset cold
Through boughs half clothed with watery sheen
Bursts on the high, new cowslipp'd world
And bathes a world half gold, half green;
Then shakes the illuminated air
With din of birds; the vales far down
Grow phosphorescent here and there;
Forth flash the turrets of the town;
Along the sky dim vapours scud;
Bright zephyr and the choral main;
The cold ebullience of the blood
Rings joy-bells in the heart and brain.
Yet in that music discords mix ;
The embalanced lights like meteors play;
And tired of splendors that perplex
The dazzled spirit sighs for May.
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