In love's sunlight o'er me cast,
Passion-flowers are springing fast,
And the founts of feeling flow
As they gush'd in years ago.
Falling faintly on my ear,
Lute-like whisperings I hear;
While a hand so soft and white
Thrills me with its pressure slight;
And a well-remember'd face
Tells me thoughts no words may trace:
Youth or manhood, rest or strife,
Love is still the soul of life.
To a very little girl, who requested the author to "write a few lines" on her. By MARY ANNE BROWNE.
"WRITE a few lines on thee," thou pretty lisper !
Who could refuse thee ?-none who could behold
Thy clear blue eyes, thy locks of silk, yet crisper-
Turn'd by the sunshine into living gold-
Thy chubby dimpled limbs, thy radiant smiles,
Thy tears, thy songs, and all thy artless wiles!
Beauty is still the poet's inspiration,
His heart leaps up to own its magic power; It thrills him with a holy adoration,
In the rich softness of the twilight hour;
The birds, the blossoms, and the bounding sea,
Are spells to wake his soul to ecstacy.
And oh! if flowers may claim his gushing song,
Surely, bright bud, one strain shall be thine own;
If to the plumy tribes his lays belong,
For thee, young bird, shall swell one heartfelt toneTo pray the leaves may open fresh and fair
The wings be strong the nursling to upbear.
Gems have been sung in minstrel measures oft;
Thou art a gem to which the diamond's worth
Is nought-nay even the burning stars aloft,
Are less to that than are the dews of earth
To them-for who may venture to control
Th' uncounted value of one human soul?
Speak not of beauty!-thou art beautiful,
And so are flowers-but lo! they fade and die!
The brightest jewel may be flaw'd and dull,
The free bird perish 'midst a sunny sky;
Far more than these can boast is with thee now,
Lighting thy changeful smile, and open brow.
Not such light fancies as in joyous feeling
The poet gives to perishable things—
Rainbows, birds, flowers-can be the true revealing
Of the deep prayer that riseth in the springs
Of the still spirit pondering upon thee,
And all thou may'st, and all thou may'st not be.
A solemn strain should rise, a strain of prayer-
May God be with thee on thine earthly way,
Guarding thy youthful heart, and setting there
His Spirit's seal, bidding thee watch and pray-
So shalt thou walk, unharm'd by worldly strife,
Towards the clear fountains of eternal life!
Extracted from an old number of Blackwood's Magazine, where it appeared anonymously.
I SAT last Sunday evening,
From sunset even till night,
At the open casement watching
The day's departing light.
Such hours to me are holy,
Holier than tongue can tell-
They fall on my heart like dew
On the drooping heather bell.
The sun had shone bright all day-
His setting was brighter still;
But there sprang up a lovelier air,
As he dropt down the western hill.
The fields and lanes were swarming
With holy-day folks in their best;
Released from their six days' cares
By the seventh day's peace and rest.
I heard the light-hearted laugh,
The trampling of many feet;
I saw them go merrily by,
And to me the sight was sweet.
There's a sacred, soothing sweetness,
A pervading spirit of bliss,
Peculiar from all other times,
In a Sabbath eve like this.
Methinks, though I knew not the day,
Nor beheld those glad faces, yet all
Would tell me that nature was keeping
Some solemn festival.
The steer and the steed, in their pastures, Lie down with a look of peace,
As if they knew 'twas commanded
That this day their labours should cease.
The lark's vesper song is more thrilling,
As he mounts to bid heaven good night;
The brook "sings " a quieter "tune;
The sun sets in lovelier light.
The grass, the green leaves, and the flowers,
Are tinged with more exquisite hues;
More odorous incense from out them
Steams up from the evening dews.
So I sat last Sunday evening,
Musing on all these things,
With that quiet gladness of spirit
No thought of this world brings.
I watch'd the departing glory
Till its last red streak grew pale,
And earth and heaven were woven
In twilight's dusky veil.
Then the lark dropt down to his mate,
By her nest on the dewy ground;
And the stir of human life
Died away to a distant sound.
All sounds died away-the light laugh,
The far footstep, the merry call-
To such stillness, the pulse of one's heart
Might have echoed a rose leaf's fall.
And, by little and little, the darkness
Waved wider its sable wings,
Till the nearest objects, and largest,
Became shapeless, confused things.
And, at last, all was dark: then I felt
A cold sadness steal over my heart,
And I said to myself, "Such is life—
So its hopes and its pleasures depart."
And when the night comes, the dark night of age,
What remaineth beneath the sun,
Of all that was lovely and loved,
Of all we have learnt and done!
When the eye waxeth dim, and the ear
To sweet music grows dull and cold,
And the fancy burns low, and the heart-
O heaven! can the heart grow old?
Then, what remaineth of life
But the lees, with bitterness fraught! What then-but I check'd as it rose
And rebuked that weak, wicked thought.
And I lifted mine eyes up, and, lo!
An answer was written on high,
By the finger of God himself,
In the depths of the dark blue sky.
There appear'd a sign in the east-
A bright, beautiful, fixed star,
And I looked on its steady light
Till the evil thought fled afar.
And the lesser lights of heaven
Shone out, with their pale, soft rays,
Like the calm, unearthly comforts
Of a good man's latter days.
And there came up a sweet perfume
From the unseen flowers below,
Like the savour of virtuous deeds,
Of deeds done long ago;
Like the mem'ry of well-spent time,
Of things that were holy and dear,
Of friends" departed this life
In the Lord's faith and fear."
So the burthen of darkness was taken
From my soul, and my heart felt light,
And I laid me down to slumber
With peaceful thoughts that night.
Translated from the German of WOLFGANG MULLER.
O klingender Fruhling, du selige zeit!
Und bist du voruber, uns thut est nicht leid:
Wir liebten uns gestern, wir lieben uns heut'-
Wir lieben uns morgen, wir gluckliche Leut!
O LIFE's ringing morning! O season divine!
What, though thou art vanish'd, we shall not repine,
We yesterday loved, and to-day 'tis the same-
And to-morrow we'll love with unchangeable flame.
Once, a troop of wild Burschen, so frolic and gay,
We went to the village to welcome the May-
To each door came the maidens, all laughing to see-
Then, darling, thou laugh'd, but in secret, on me :—
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