The thoughts of thy heart are recorded by me; There are some which, half-breathed, half-acknowledged by thee, Steal sweetly and silently o'er thy pure breast, Just ruffling its calmness, then murm'ring to rest. Like a breeze o'er the lake, when it breathlessly lies, I breathe o'er thy slumbers sweet dreams of delight, My spirit shall watch thee, wherever thou art, And the young rays of morning are wreathed round my head. WHAT IS SOLITUDE? BY C. F. HOFFMAN. Not in the shadowy wood, Not in the crag-hung glen, Not where the sleeping echoes brood Not by the sea-swept shore Not on the mountain hoar, Not by the breezeless lake, Not in the desert plain Where man hath never stood, Whether on isle or main Not there is Solitude! There are birds in the woodland bowers, Voices in lonely dells, And streams that talk to the listening hours In earth's most secret cells. There is life on the foam-flecked sand By ocean's curling lip, And life on the still lake's strand 'Mid flowers that o'er it dip; There is life in the tossing pines That plume the mountain crest, And life in the courser's mane that shines As he scours the desert's breast. But go to the crowded mart, 'Mid the sordid haunts of men, Go there and ask thy heart, What answer makes it then? Where love-lit eyes are beaming, But Love himself is not! Go-if thou wouldst be lonely Where the phantom Pleasure's wooed, And own that there-there only 'Mid crowds is Solitude. THE BRAVE. BY J. G. BROOKS. WHERE have the valiant sunk to rest, When their sands of life were numbered? On the downy couch? on the gentle breast Where their youthful visions slumbered? When the mighty passed the gate of death, No! but upon war's fiery breath Their blood-dyed flag was sailing! Not on the silent feverish bed, With weeping friends around them, Were the parting prayers of the valiant said, When death's dark angel found them. But in the stern and stormy strife, In the flush of lofty feeling, When the hot war-steed, with crimsoned mane Or seek the brave in their ocean grave, There sleep the gallant and the proud, Or seek them on fields where the grass grows deep, There the sons of battle in quiet sleep: MORNING. BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON. I COME in the breath of the wakened breeze, I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees; And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night, Thou may'st slumber when all the wide arches of Heaven Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven, Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night; r; Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or fear! Awake thee then, maiden, awake! Oh, awake! LAKE GEORGE. BY MRS. E. F. ELLET. NoT in the bannered castle Beside the gilded throne, On fields where knightly ranks have strode, The Spirit of the stately mien, Whose presence flings a spell, Fadeless on all around her, In empire loves to dwell. Gray piles and moss-grown cloisters, Should be so brief and vain. |