I THINK OF THEE.

BY T. K. HIERVEY, ESQ.

I.

I THINK of thee, in the night

When all beside is still,

And the moon comes out, with her pale, sad light,

To sit on the lonely hill :

When the stars are all like dreams,

And the breezes all like sighs,

And there comes a voice from the far-off streams,

Like thy spirit's low replies!

II.

I think of thee, by day,

Mid' the cold and busy crowd,

When the laughter of the young and gay

Is far too glad and loud;

I hear thy low, sad tone,

And thy sweet, young smile I see,

-My heart-my heart were all alone,
But for its thoughts of thee!

III.

Of thee, who wert so dear,

And, yet, I do not weep;

For, thine eyes were stained by many a tear

Before they went to sleep;

And, if I haunt the past,

Yet may I not repine,

Since thou hast won thy rest at last,

And all the grief is mine.

I think upon thy gain,

IV.

Whate'er to me it cost,

And fancy dwells, with less of pain,
On all that I have lost;—
Hope-like the cuckoo's endless tale,
-Alas! it wears its wing!—

And love, that—like the nightingale—
Sings only in the spring!

Thou art my spirit's all,

V.

Just as thou wert in youth,

Still from thy grave no shadows fall

Upon my lonely truth ;—

A taper yet above thy tomb,

Since lost its sweeter rays,

And what is memory, through the gloom,

Was hope, in brighter days!

VI.

I am pining for the home

Where sorrow sinks to sleep,

Where the weary and the weepers come,

And they cease to toil and weep!

Why walk about with smiles

That each should be a tear,

Like the white plumes that fling their wiles Above an early bier!

VII.

Oh! like those fairy things,—

Those insects of the east,

Which have their beauty in their wings,

And shroud it while they rest;
Which fold their colours of the sky
When earthward they alight,

And flash their splendours on the eye,
Only to take their flight ;—

VIII.

I never knew how dear thou wert,

Till thou wert borne away!-
I have it, yet, about my heart,
Thy beauty of that day;
As if the robe thou wert to wear,
In other climes, were given,

That I might learn to know it there,

And seek thee out, in heaven!

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE.

I.

AGAIN the flowers we loved to twine
Wreathe wild round every tree;
Again the summer sun-beams shine,
That cannot shine on thee.
Verdure returns with fresher bloom
To vale and mountain-brow;
All nature breaks as from the tomb;
But-'Where art thou?'

II.

At eve, to sail upon the tide,

To roam along the shore,

So sweet while thou wert at my side,
Can now delight no more:-

There is in heaven, and o'er the flood,
The same deep azure now;

The same notes warble through the wood;

III.

Men say there is a voice of mirth,
In every grove and glen ;

But sounds of gladness on the earth

I cannot know again.

The rippling of the summer sea,
The bird upon the bough,

All speak with one sad voice to me;
'Tis 'Where art thou !'

HOAR-FROST.

BY WILLIAM HOWITT, ESQ.

WHAT dream of beauty ever equalled this!
What bands from Faëryland have sallied forth,
With snowy foliage from the 'abundant North,
With imagery from the realms of bliss!
What visions of my boyhood do I miss
That here are not restored! All splendours pure,
All loveliness, all graces that allure;

Shapes that amaze; a paradise that is,—
Yet was not, will not in few moments be:

Glory from nakedness, that playfully

Mimics with passing life each summer boon;
Clothing the ground — replenishing the tree ;
Weaving arch, bower, and delicate festoon;
Still as a dream,—and like a dream to flee !