There is music when summer is with us on earth,
Sent forth from the valley, the mountain, the sky; There is music where rivers and fountains have birth, Or leaves whisper soft as the wind passeth by; There is music in voices that gladden our homes, In the lay of the mother, the laugh of the child; There is music wherever the wanderer roams, In city or solitude, garden or wild :Oh, God of Creation! these sounds are of Thee, Thou surely hast made them for none but the free!
By HAMILTON AIDE.
WHEN we are parted, let me lie
In some far corner of thy heart
Silent, and from the world apart,
Like a forgotten melody.
Forgotten of the world beside,
Cherish'd by one, and one alone,
For some loved memory of its own;
So let me in thy heart abide
When we are parted!
When we are parted, keep for me,
The sacred stillness of the night,—
That hour, sweet love, is mine by right:
Let others claim thy day of thee!
The cold world sleeping at our feet,
My spirit shall discourse with thine
When stars upon thy pillow shine,
At thy heart's door I stand and beat
Though we are parted ¡
WOMEN AND CHILDREN.
By FREDERICK TENNYSON.
OH! if no faces were beheld on earth,
But toiling manhood, and repining age,
No welcome eyes of innocence and mirth
To look upon us kindly, who would wage
The gloomy battle for himself alone?
Or through the dark of the o'erhanging cloud
Look wistfully for light? Who would not groan
Beneath his daily task, and weep aloud?
But little children take us by the hand,
And gaze with trustful cheer into our eyes;
Patience and fortitude beside us stand
In woman's shape, and waft to heav'n our sighs:
The guiltless child holds back the arm of guilt
Upraised to strike, and woman may atone
With sinless tears for sins of man, and melt
The damning seal when evil deeds are done.
A LOVERS' FANCY.
By GERALD MASSEY.
SWEET Heaven! I do love a maiden,
Radiant, rare, and beauty-laden :
When she's near me, heaven is round me,
Her dear presence doth so bound me!
I could wring my heart of gladness,
Might it free her lot of sadness!
Give the world, and all that's in it,
Just to press her hand a minute;
Yet she weeteth not I love her;
Never dare I tell the sweet
Tale, but to the stars above her,
And the flowers that kiss her feet.
O! to live and linger near her,
And in tearful moments cheer her!
I could be a bird to lighten
Her dear heart,-her sweet eyes brighten :
The wide large-lighted moon had arisen,
Where the dark and voluminous ocean grew luminous,
Helping after her slowly one little shy star
That shook blue in the cold, and look'd forlorn,
The clouds were troubled, and the wind from his prison
Behind them leap'd down with a light laugh of scorn;
Then the last thing she saw was that bare blackthorn;
For the forked tree as the bleak blast took it,
Howl'd thro' it, and beat it, and bit it, and shook it,
Seem'd to visibly waste and wither and wizen.
From MILTON's Comus.
THE star that bids the shepherd fold,
Now the top of heaven doth hold,
And the gilded car of day
His glowing axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantic stream,
And the slope sun his upward beam
Shoots against the dusky pole,
Pacing toward the other goal
Of his chamber in the east.
Meanwhile welcome Joy, and Feast,
Midnight shout, and revelry,
Tipsy dance, and jollity.
Braid your locks with rosy twine,
Dropping odours, dropping wine.
Rigour now is gone to bed,
And Advice with scrupulous head,
Strict Age and sour Severity
With their grave saws in slumber lie.
We that are of purer fire
Imitate the starry quire,
Who, in their nightly watchful spheres,
Lead in swift round the months and years.
The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove,
Now to the moon in wavering morrice move;
And on the tawny sands and shelves
Trip the pert faeries and the dapper elves.
By dimpled brook, and fountain brim,
The Wood-Nymphs deck'd with daisies trim,
Their merry wakes and pastime keep.
Come, knit hands, and beat the ground
In a light fantastic round.
A quaint but highly poetical composition, by ROBERT BROWNING.
HERE's the garden she walk'd across,
Arm in my arm, such a short while since :
Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss
Hinders the hinges and makes them wince;
She must have reach'd this shrub ere she turn'd,
As back with that murmur the wicket swung;
For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurn'd,
To feed and forget it the leaves among.
Down this side of the gravel-walk
She went while her robe's edge brush'd the box:
And here she paused in her gracious talk
To point me a moth on the milk-white flox.
Roses, ranged in valiant row,
I will never think that she pass'd you by!
She loves you, noble roses, I know;
But yonder, see where the rock-plants lie.
This flower she stopp'd at, finger on lip,
Stoop'd over, in doubt, as settling its claim;
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,
Its soft meandering Spanish name.
What a name? was it love or praise?
Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake ?
I must learn Spanish one of these days,
Only for that slow sweet name's sake.
Roses, if I live and do well,
I may bring her one of these days,
To fix you fast with as fine a spell,
Fit you each with his Spanish phrase!
But do not detain me now; for she lingers
There, like sunshine over the ground,
And ever I see her soft white fingers
Searching after the bud she found.
Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not,
Stay as you are and be loved for ever!
Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that blow not,
Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never!
For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle,
Twinkling the audacious leaves between,
Till round they turn and down they nestle—
Is not the dear mark still to be seen?
Where I find her not, beauties vanish;
Whither I follow her, beauties flee;
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish
June's twice June since she breathed it with me?
Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,
Treasure my lady's lightest foot-fall;
Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces-
Roses, you are not so fair after all!
AND this place my forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom
To each poor brother who offends against us--
Most innocent, perhaps-and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up
By ignorance and parching poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt, till, changed to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot.
Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks;
And this is their best cure! Uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning, and tears,
And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungeon By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies,
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