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A LOVER DROPPING ASLEEP IN THE MIDST OF HAPPY THOUGHTS.
A passage in Coventry Patmore's Angel in the House.
'Tis sweeter than all else below,
The daylight and its duties done,
Relinquish all regards but one:
To lie and meditate once more
Some tone he had not heard before:
Her notes, her picture, and her glove,
And press them-to the heart of love:
To live so long as not to miss
Which farther seems the nearer 'tis:
To drink in sleep, while on her brow
The laughing bridal roses blow.
FLORA AND CAROLINE.
Caroline.—Flora, my dear, why do you look so sad?
Is not the night most lovely, with her locks
Dark as the raven's wing—and all around
A very picture of repose and peace—
Bathed in the luxuries of tranquil bliss:
Steep'd to the very lips in ecstacy,
Too deep and long-sustain'd for utterance:
Too passionate for words, like the sweet moments
When the eye only speaks th' unsyllabled words
Of the o'erbrimming heart, and the soul spills
The overflowing fulness of its joy
In the sweet eloquence of silence. Hark!
The only voices that disturb the night,
Or rather mingle with its solemn hush,
Are two, save ours i that of the restless wind
Gliding about among the trees, as if
The Angel of the Earth was passing o'er
The velvet carpet of her palace home,
From chamber unto chamber, just to see,
With all the yearning of a mother's heart,
That all her loved ones were asleep and well,
And look her last on them for this one night,
And take their happy dreams with her to Heaven,—
And that the motion which we hear was but
The rustle of her garments; and the other
Is the soft silver-tmkled splash of yonder
Moss-covered fountain. How I love the sound
Of falling water. It hath something in it
Which speaks of the long past—of infancy
And the bright pearl-like days of childhood; and
I fancy that I hear it murmuring
Stories of red-ripe berries; and with glee,
And with an innocent cunning, telling of
Those secret nooks where thickest hang the nuts
From their o'erladen branches: oh! it speaks,
In tones we cannot help but understand,
Of those far distant times when all things were
Treasures and joys, not to be bought with worlds;
When a new pleasure was a pleasure, just
Because that it was new: and all things seem'd
As pretty playthings to the new-born soul,
Constructed for its use and sole amusement;
But why art thou so sad?
As though she had tried all things, and had found
Oh yes! I love the night, whoever standeth
With her gemm'd finger on her rich ripe Up,
As if in attitude of deep attention,
Catching the mighty echoes of the words
Which God had utter'd ere the earth was form'd,
Or e'er yon Infinite blush'd like a bride
With all her jewels; and I love the flowers,
And their soft slumber as they lie around
In the sweet starlight, bathed in lovelike dew,
And looking like young sisters, orphans too,
Left to our watchful care and guardianship,
To keep them from the rough-voiced, burly winds,
And see that nought invades their soul-like sleep.
Thou cans't not tell me what I do not love
In all this dark-robed family of peace :—
The temporary hush of the low winds,
And their uprising wail: the shadows there,
Cast from the long dark shrubberies, that move
And rest again on the green sward, and nod
Their hearse-like plumage to the passing winds:
The deep, unclouded light, half glow, half gloom,
Dark, and yet lustrous, gleaming with a fire
Whose sources seem unfathomable: love
Even the very grass beneath our feet,
Whose graceful blades I almost fear to tread on,
Because when I have passed, they raise themselves
Again half in reproach, so quietly
Turning themselves once more unto the heaven
That cherishes and feeds them—I could weep
That I had crushed them underneath my foot:
Even yon tree, standing so lonely there,
As if it dreamt of all the breezes, which
In times long past it clasp'd within its arms
All wither'd now, and of the music which
Its branches used to hold when in their prime,
Ere it became a thing unsightly on
The bosom of the living world—a limb
Now to the uplands gentle Spring withdraws;
By Emily C. Huntington; taken from Knickerbocker, an American Magazine.
I Am sitting alone with the night, Nellie,
Alone with the beautiful night,
I never can tell aright;
That leaps in the flashing light.
The stars are mounting on high, Nellie,
And the old moon sinking a-low,
The night winds merrily blow,
In ripples of coolness flow.
The night is thrilling with sounds, Nellie,
The murmur of winds is waking,
And the whisper of leaves that meet,
With the chime and the tinkle of water,
My soul is fill'd with the moonlight,
And the skies that bend over my spirit
And a thousand hopes like planets,
I Am so home-sick in this summer weather!
Where is my home upon this weary earth? The maple trees are bursting into freshness
Around the pleasant place that gave me birth.
But dearer far, a grave for me is waiting,
The willow boughs the hand of love has planted
Why go without me, O ye loved and loving?
What has earth left of happiness or peace? Let me come to you where the heart grows calmer,
Let me lie down where life's wild strugglings cease.
Earth has no home for hearts so worn and weary,
Oh! for the day that bids me come to meet you