TO THE RIVER CHARLES, Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form, 'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen, 195 Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green. But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now; That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness, Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow; And hush'd the last deep beating of the heart; TO THE RIVER CHARLES. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. RIVER! that in silence windest Through the meadows, bright and free, Four long years of mingled feeling, Thou hast taught me, Silent River! 196 TO THE RIVER CHARLES. Oft in sadness and in illness, I have watch'd thy current glide, And in better hours and brighter, Not for this alone I love thee, Nor because thy waves of blue Take their own celestial hue. Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, Friends I loved have dwelt beside thee, More than this;-thy name reminds me Friends my soul with joy remembers! On the hearth-stone of my heart! 'Tis for this, thou Silent River! That my spirit leans to thee; "LET THERE BE LIGHT." BY WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. NIGHT, stern, eternal, and alone, Sat brooding o'er the vast profound— Then moved upon the wayeless deep Then, in his burning track, the sun Trod onward to his joyous noon, And in the heavens, one by one, Cluster'd the stars around the moon In glory bathed, the radiant day Wore like a king his crown of light— And, girdled by the Milky Way," How queenly look'd the star-gemm'd night! (197) 198 26 LET THERE BE LIGHT." Bursting from choirs celestial, rang In concert with the heavenly throng; Creator! let thy Spirit shine The darkness of our souls within, From the forbidden paths of sin; Thus, made partakers of Thy love, Triumphant through the arch of heaven- THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD. BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. OUR ancient church! its lowly tower, Is shadow'd when the sunset hour Like sentinel and nun, they keep One seems to guard, and one to weep, And both roll out, so full and near, Their music's mingling waves, They shake the grass, whose pennon'd spear Leans on the narrow graves. The stranger parts the flaunting weeds, So thick beneath the line he reads, They shade the sculptured stone; The graven willow's pendent bough, |