And so my heart's despair Looks for thee ere the firstling smoke hath curl'd; While the wrapt earth is at her morning prayer; Ere yet she putteth on her workday air, And robes her for the world, When the sun-burst is o'er, Isabel. My lonely way about the world I take, But never once I dare Isabel. To see thine image till the day be new, Isabel. Then that lost form appears, Which was a joy to few on earth but me: So with Promethean moan, Isabel. In widowhood renew'd I learn to grieve; Can fade-that thou thro' years shalt still shine on Thou morn that knew no eve, In beauty art thou gone; Isabel. As some bright meteor gleams across the night, And dying by its own excess of light, Isabel. THE DYING MINSTREL. By MARY ANN Browne. SLOWLY and sadly, day by day, As a fountain drieth she faded away. Sometimes her voice breathed in silvery words, Broken and wild as the wind-harp's sigh. She had come from her own delicious clime, From the tongues that praised her, the hearts that adored,— And now she was dying!-dying afar, 'Twas a summer-sunset, and that soft hour And she thought of her own bright Italy, And turn'd her eyes o'er the twilight wave, Towards the spot where she wish'd so much for a grave. Drawing forth note by note at first, Into a sweet wild symphony: And then the minstrel's soft voice rose, While a tear was straying down her cheek, And there came an unearthly light o'er her eye, As she spake of the time when her land should be But the song died away-and with it, too, She bow'd her head, and hush'd were her words, And had only paused awhile for breath- LOVE'S MEMORIES. By J. DENNIS. Down by the woods, where the blooming purple heather Chaunting some old ballad, some wild and artless measure; Flew lightly at the whispering of lovers' fervent vows. And sometimes on the page such a glorious light would glisten Such a flash from out the ether of a bright and purer sphereThat we closed the book with wonder, and sat us down to listen, For we thought that angel voices were singing to us near. Glimpses of a golden future, tender memories of the past, Hopes of deep and solemn import, from their spirit-home above Slightly veiled from our seeing by the glory round them cast Come like mirror'd shapes before us when the soul is fill'd with love. And the light which love had kindled had shed its halo round us As we gazed upon the woodland with its old majestic trees, Mid the depth of nature's stillness how its silken fetters bound us, And the secrets of the future were whisper'd 'mong the leaves. Not the noblest strain of music pealing through the solemn aisles, Till the old cathedral towers seem to vibrate with the spell, Fills the spirit with such rapture, or the fancy so beguiles, As the music of love's making on the chords it knows so well. Years have flown-for youth is fleeting-love is like a stranger guest; Yet the memory of its glory melts like music on our souls; Wits may sneer and fools deride it, pointing with a courtly jest But the passions of the morning manhood's calmer noon controls. THE QUARRY MAN. By J. BRADSHAWE WALKER. THE Sun has seen him all day long, Little he knows, or seeks to ken, No need hath he of dainties rare, That ruddy child, besmearèd o'er Again he seeks the ponderous rock, His time is measured by the sun- Cheerly along the lone green lane, To his straw-thatch'd cot he goes; He hears his children's voice again, And 'tis there his joys repose. |