42 ON THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZADAM. Praise! light and dew of the sweet leaves Given by vapid fools, who laud Is on the air that bears your name. And he! what was his fate, the bard, That bore him and his harp along? That fate which waits the gifted one, The shade and silence of neglect. And this the polish'd age, that springs To die in poverty and pride, The light of hope and genius past, Thus withering amid the wreck Of sweet hopes, high imaginings, What can the Minstrel do, but die, Cursing his too beloved strings! I THINK OF THEE. BY T. K. HERVEY. 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 far off streams, Like thy spirit's low replies! I think of thee by day, Mid the cold and busy crowd, When the laughter of the young and gay I hear thy low sad tone, And thy sweet young smile I see, -My heart-my heart were all alone, But for its dreams of thee! Of thee, who wert so dear, And, yet, I do not weep; For thine eyes were stain'd by many a tear Before they went to sleep; And, if I haunt the past, Yet may I not repine, That thou hast won thy rest at last, And all the grief is mine. I think upon thy gain, Whate'er to me it cost, And fancy dwells, with less of pain, And love, that-like the nightingale— I THINK OF THEE. Thou art my spirit's all, Just as thou wert in youth; A taper yet above thy tomb, And what is memory through the gloom, I am pining for the home Where sorrow sinks to sleep, That each should be a tear, Oh like those fairy things, Those insects of the east, Which have their beauty in their wings, I never knew how dear thou wert, I have it, yet, about my heart, As if the robe thou wert to wear, EXCUSE FOR NOT FULFILLING AN ENGAGEMENT. BY LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. My friend, I gave a glad assent "You must dismiss at four." But slates, and books, and maps appear, And many a dear one cries, "Oh tell us where that river runs, And where these mountains rise, And where that blind old monarch reign'd, And who was king before, And stay a little after five, And tell us something more." Each brow is somewhat cold and stern, "We did not know you kept a school, Their visit was but short indeed, FORGET THEE? BY THE REV. JOHN MOULTRIE. "FORGET thee?"-If to dream by night, and muse on thee by day; If all the worship deep and wild a poet's heart can pay, If prayers in absence, breathed for thee to heaven's protecting power, [hour, If winged thoughts that flit to thee-a thousand in an If busy Fancy blending thee with all my future lot, If this thou call'st "forgetting," thou, indeed, shalt be forgot! "Forget thee?"-Bid the forest birds forget their sweetest tune! "Forget thee?"-Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the moon; Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's refreshing dew; Thyself forget thine "own dear land," and its "mountains wild and blue;" Forget each old familiar face, each long remember'd spot: When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot! Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and fancy-free; For, God forbid! thy gladsome heart should grow less glad for me; Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh, bid not mine to rove, [love; But let it muse its humble faith, and uncomplaining If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not, Forget me then ;-but ne'er believe that thou canst be forgot! |