THE SIESTA. Translated from the Spanish by W. C. BRYANT. While my lady sleeps in the shade below. Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest, Bearing delight where'er ye blow, While my lady sleeps in the shade below. Airs! that over the bending boughs, Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves,- WE ARE EVER GETTING. From the unknown volume already quoted. THINGS Come into us, and we know not We know not what's within, nor what O let our eyes be ever open, Beauty is ever on us laving, A flood of beauty is about us, Through cracks and crannies of our senses, Not to be lost-though lost it seem Only to slumber long, And out in after days to stream In gushes of sweet song. TWILIGHT. By LONGFELLOW. THE twilight is sad and cloudy, But in the fisherman's cottage Close, close it is press'd to the window, Were looking into the darkness, To see some form arise. And a woman's waving shadow Now rising to the ceiling, Now bowing and bending low. What tale do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind, bleak and wild, As they beat at the crazy casement, Tell to that little child? And why do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind, wild and bleak, As they beat at the heart of the mother, Drive the colour from her cheek? MY BELOVED. By OWEN MEREDITH. WE are not happy-we may never be, The roses and the thorns We have pluck'd together. We have proved both. Say, More bright for rains between ?-tis much-tis more, And that perpetual silence of the tomb! LIFE. By W. C. BRYANT, the American poet. Oн Life! I breathe thee in the breeze, This stream of odours flowing by From clover-field and clumps of pine, This music, thrilling all the sky, From all the morning birds, are thine. Thou fill'st with joy this little one, Through the dark woods like frighted deer. Ah! must thy mighty breath, that wakes Pass, pulse by pulse, till o'er the ground The things, oh Life! thou quickenest, all Back to earth's bosom when they die. All that have borne the touch of death, There lies my chamber dark and still, In the sweet air and sunshine sweet. Well, I have had my turn, have been The brightness of the skirts of God; And knew the light within my breast, And cannot die, were all from him. Dear child! I know that thou wilt grieve Thy little heart will soon be heal'd, When we descend to dust again, THE CONQUEROR WORM. By EDGAR A. POE. Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! A play of hopes and fears, Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mere puppets they, who come and go That motley drama-ch, be sure With its phantom chased for evermore, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of madness and more of sin, And horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! |