THE BUGLE.

BY G. MELLEN.

But still the dingle's hollow throat
Prolonged the swelling Bugle.s note;
The owlets started from their dream,
The eagles answered with their scream;
Round and around the sounds were cast,

Till Echo seemed an answering blast.-Lady of the Lake.

I.

O, WILD, enchanting horn!

Whose music, up the deep and dewy air,

Swells to the clouds, and calls on echo there,

Till a new melody is born!

II.

Wake, wake again; the night

Is bending from her throne of beauty down,
With still stars beaming on her azure crown,
Intense, and eloquently bright!

III.

Night, at its pulseless noon!

When the far voice of waters mourns in song,

And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long,
Barks at the melancholy moon!

Hark! how it sweeps away,

Soaring and dying on the silent sky,

As if some sprite of sound went wandering by, With lone halloo and roundelay.

V.

Swell, swell in glory out!

Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart, And my stirred spirit hears thee with a start, As boyhood's old remembered shout!

VI.

O, have ye heard that peal,

From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements, Or from the guarded field and warrior tents, Like some near breath around ye steal!

VII.

Or have ye, in the roar

Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise,

Shriller than eagle's clamour to the skies,

Where wings and tempests never soar!

VIII.

Go, go; no other sound,

No music, that of air or earth is born,
Can match the mighty music of that horn,

On Midnight's fathomless profound!

TO A WAVE.

BY J. 0. ROCKWELL.

LIST! thou child of wind and sea,
Tell me of the far off deep,
Where the tempest's wing is free,
And the waters never sleep.
Thou perchance the storm hath aided,
In its works of stern despair,
Or perchance thy hand hath braided,
In deep caves, the mermaid's hair.

Wave! now on the golden sands, Silent as thou art, and broken, Bearest thou not from distant strands

To my heart some pleasant token? Tales of mountains of the south, Spangles of the ore of silver, Which with playful singing mouth,

Thou hast leaped on high to pilfer?

Mournful Wave! I deemed thy song
Was telling of a floating prison,
Which when tempests swept along,

And the mighty winds were risen,
Foundered in the ocean's grasp,

While the brave and fair were dying.
Wave! didst mark a white hand clasp
In thy folds as thou wert flying?

Hast thou seen the hallowed rock,
Where the pride of kings reposes,
Crowned with many a misty lock,

Wreathed with samphire green and roses?

Or with joyous playful leap

Hast thou been a tribute flinging

Up that bold and jutting steep,

Pearls upon the south wind stringing?

Faded Wave! a joy to thee

Now thy flight and toil are over!

Oh! may my departure be

Calm as thine, thou ocean rover !

When this soul's last joy or mirth
On the shore of time is driven,
Be its lot like thine on earth,

To be lost away in heaven.

A PLEDGE TO THE DYING YEAR.

BY M. E. BROOK S.

FILL to the brim! one pledge to the past,
As it sinks on its shadowy bier;

Fill to the brim! 'tis the saddest and last
We pour to the grave of the year!

Wake, the light phantoms of beauty that won us
To linger awhile in those bowers;

And flash the bright day-beams of promise upon us,
That gilded life's earlier hours.

Here's to the love-though it flitted away,

We can never, no, never forget!

Through the gathering darkness of many a day,

One pledge will we pour to it yet.

Oh, frail as the vision, that witching and tender,

And bright on the wanderer broke,

When Irem's own beauty in shadowless splendour, Along the wild desert awoke.

Fill to the brim! one pledge to the glow

Of the heart in its purity warm!