STANZAS. BY T. K. HERVEY. SLUMBER lie soft on thy beautiful eye! Spirits whose smiles are like thine of the sky, But loving and loved as a child of the earth! Why is that tear? Art thou gone, in thy dream, song, Flings sweets on the wave, as it wanders along? And now, as I watch o'er thy slumbers, alone, And hear thy low breathing, and know thee mine own, Slumber lie soft on thy beautiful eye! With the shade time has flung over all-but thy heart! LINES TO A YOUNG LADY, ON HER MARRIAGE. BY G. M. FITZGERALD. THEY tell me, gentle lady, that they deck thee for a bride, That the wreath is woven for thy hair, the bridegroom by thy side; And I think I hear thy father's sigh, thy mother's calmer tone, As they give thee to another's arms-their beautiful -their own. I never saw a bridal but my eyelid hath been wet, And it always seemed to me as though a joyous crowd were met To see the saddest sight of all, a gay and girlish thing Lay aside her maiden gladness-for a name and for a ring. And other cares will claim thy thoughts, and other hearts thy love, And gayer friends may be around, and bluer skies above; Yet thou, when I behold thee next, may'st wear upon thy brow, Perchance, a mother's look of care, for that which decks it now. And when I think how often I have seen thee, with thy mild And lovely look, and step of air, and bearing like a child, LINES TO A YOUNG LADY. 251 Oh! how mournfully, how mournfully, the thought comes o'er my brain, When I think thou ne'er may'st be that free and girlish thing again. I would that as my heart dictates, just such might be my lay, And my voice should be a voice of mirth, a music like the May; But it may not be !-within my breast all frozen are the springs, The murmur dies upon the lip the music on the strings. But a voice is floating round me, and it tells me in my rest, That sunshine shall illume thy path, that joy shall be thy guest, That thy life shall be a summer's day, whose evening shall go down, Like the evening in the eastern clime, that never knows a frown. When thy foot is at the altar, when the ring hath pressed thy hand, When those thou lov'st, and those that love thee, weeping round thee stand, Oh may the verse that friendship weaves, like a spirit of the air, Be o'er thee at that moment-for a blessing and a prayer! BYRON. BY W. KENNEDY. THE forfeit's paid,—we pardon thee,— Will never know decay. The monarch of the melody Is risen from his throne, And who shall lead the harmony, When he, our feast, hath flown? His harp obeys no stranger hand, Nor have we one whose chords command The wild heart-piercing tone, That swelled above each heavy hymn Of those, who would have rivalled him. Attendant on the minstrel's form A band of spirits came, From earth and air, in calm and storm, In water and in flame; The children of the Universe Obeyed the magic of his verse, Things lovely, to the wondering eyes BYRON. He died too, as he wished to die, E'er fixed its taint on thee; And in that latest, loneliest hour, There lives for me a thought with power The consciousness that I shall be Permitted to obtain A place in thy community With those who most resemble thee. 253 STANZAS FOR EVENING. BY LAMAN BLANCHARD. THERE is an hour when leaves are still, and winds sleep on the wave; When far beneath the closing clouds the day hath found a grave; And stars that at the note of dawn begin their circling flight, Return like sun-tired birds, to seek the sable boughs of night. The curtains of the mind are closed, and slumber is most sweet, And visions to the hearts of men direct their fairy feet; LYRE. Y |