82 THE SISTER'S VOICE. And the mild, bright smile that lit her face, For oh! it was so soft and sweet,' And loveliest when it rose above O, in my childhood I have sate When that sweet voice hath breathed, Of the wild flowers I had wreathed; If my sweet sister only warned, I never could delay. 'Twas she who sang me many a rhyme, And told me many a tale, And many a legend of olden time That made my spirit quail. There are a thousand pleasant sounds Around our cottage still The torrent that before it bounds, The breeze upon the hill, The murmuring of the wood-dove's sigh, We stood around her dying bed, To the mournful beings that she loved, Till at last from her eye came one bright ray, And, as her spirit passed away, We heard her sigh," farewell !" And oft since then that voice hath come Across my heart again; And it seems to speak as from the tomb, 84 THE SONG AT TWILIGHT. And I never hear a low, soft flute, Or the sound of a rippling stream, Or the rich deep music of a lute, But it renews my dream, And brings the hidden treasures forth That lie in memory's store; And again to thoughts of that voice gives birth, No more! it is not so-my hope Where we shall gaze on those we love, And I shall hear my sister's voice, In holier, purer tone; With all the spotless souls rejoice Before the Eternal Throne. BROWNE. THE SONG AT TWILIGHT. WHEN evening spreads her shades around, When not a murmur, not a sound, To Fancy's sportive ear is given; When the broad orb of heaven is bright, Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ; Then, when our thoughts are raised above This world, and all this world can give, O, sister, sing the song I love, And tears of gratitude receive. 'Twere almost sacrilege to sing Those notes amid the glare of day; Notes borne by angel's purest wing, And wafted by their breath away. When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed, * L. M. DAVIDSON. TO A YOUNG BROTHER. THERE'S Something in a noble boy, His dread of books and love of fun; 86 TO A YOUNG BROTHER. And in his clear and ready smile, And felt its very gladness. And yet it is not in his play, When every trace of thought is lost, His shout may ring upon the hill, His merry laugh like music thrill, For like the wrinkles on my brow, Which passed me on those golden wings |