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İr seems but yesterday, my love, thy little heart beat high, And I had almost scorned the voice that told me thou
I saw thee move with active bound, with spirits wild and
And infant grace and beauty gave their glorious charm
Far on the sunny plains I saw thy sparkling footsteps fly, Fair, light, and graceful, as the bird that cleaves the
And often, as the playful breeze waved back thy shining hair,
Thy cheek displayed the red-rose tint that health had
And then in all my thoughtfulness, I could not but rejoice' To hear upon the morning wind the music of thy voice,Now echoing in the rapturous laugh, now sad almost to tears;
'Twas like the sounds I used to hear in old and happier years.
I loved thee, and my heart was blest; but, ere that day
I saw thy light and graceful form in drooping illness bent, And shuddered as I cast a look upon thy fainting head; The mournful cloud was gathering there, and life was almost fled.
And when I could not keep the tear from gathering in my
Thy little hand pressed gently mine in token of reply ;
To ask one more exchange of love thy look was upward
And in that long and burning kiss thy happy spirit passed: W. B. O. PEABODY:
THOU blossom, bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heavens' own hue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.
Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple drest,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and comest alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near its end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue-blue-as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.
RELIGION OF ANCIENT GREECE.
IN that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, stretched On the soft grass through half a summer's day, With music lulled his indolent repose ;
And, in some fit of weariness, if he,
When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear
A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds
Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched,
Even from the blazing chariot of the sun,
A beardless youth, who touched a golden lute,
And filled the illumined groves with ravishment.
The nightly hunter, lifting up his eyes
Towards the crescent moon, with grateful heart
Called on the lovely wanderer, who bestowed
That timely light to share his joyous sport;
And hence a beaming goddess with her nymphs,
Across the lawn and through the darksome grove
Swept in the storm of chase, as moon and stars
Glance rapidly along the clouded heavens,
When winds are blowing strong. The traveller
His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked
The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills
Gliding apace, with shadows in their train,
Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly.
The Zephyrs, fanning as they passed, their wings,
Lacked not for love fair objects, whom they wooed
With gentle whispers. Withered boughs grotesque,
Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age,
From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth
In the low vale, or on steep mountain side,
And sometimes intermixed with stirring horns
Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard;
These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood
Of gamesome deities; or Pan himself,
The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring God!
I SEE thee still;
Remembrance, faithful to her trust,
Calls thee in beauty from the dust;
Thou comest in the morning light,
Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night,
In dreams I meet thee as of old;
Then thy soft arms my neck enfold,
And thy sweet voice is in my ear;
In every scene to memory dear,
I see thee still.
every hallowed token round; This little ring thy finger bound,
This lock of hair thy forehead shaded,
This silken chain by thee was braided,
These flowers, all withered now like thee,
Sweet Sister, thou didst cull for me;
This book was thine; here didst thou read;
This picture, ah! yes, here, indeed,
I see thee still.
Here was thy summer noon's retreat,
Here was thy favorite fireside seat;
This was thy chamber-here, each day,
I sat and watched thy sad decay;
Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie,
Here, on this pillow-thou didst die.
Dark hour! once more its woes unfold;
As then I saw thee, pale and cold,
I see thee still.
Thou art not in the grave confined-
Death cannot claim the immortal mind;
Let Earth close o'er its sacred trust,
But goodness dies not in the dust;
Thee, O my Sister, 'tis not thee
Beneath the coffin's lid I see;
Thou to a fairer land art gone;
There, let me hope, my journey done,
To see thee still!