CANST THOU FORGET ME?

113

Was it our own rejoicing souls which threw, O'er land and sky, that strangely glorious hue? For ne'er have I, since that remembered hour, Seen the same beauty on earth, sky, or flower!

Canst thou forget how dear that hour was deemed

By thee and me?

How strangely fateful, yet how brief it seemed,-How sweet-how passing sweet the dream we dreamed,

If dreams they be

Which have so strong a power o'er heart and

brain

To make life lovely, or a path of pain!

Dreams are unreal-therefore call these not Dreams which thus beautify or cloud our lot!

Canst thou forget me-thou whose fervent heart
To mine addressed

Words far too pure to be the words of art,
Too fond, too trustful, to be coined to smart
A loving breast!

No lot hath woman-unforgotten one!

So dark, so desolate, so deeply lone,

As when a heart that vowed a faith like thine Learns to forget.—Oh, can that lot be mine?

Canst thou forget the prayers I've prayed for

them,

The thoughts I've poured

Forth from my trusting breast, all fearlessly, To cheer thee in thy home beyond the sea, When dark fate loured?

Is this forgotten as a bygone tale?

Is man's deep heart so fickle, and so frail ?
Is memory given to my true breast alone?
Canst thou forget me-unforgotten one?

ALICIA JANE SPARROW.

THE HEAVENLY REST.

THERE is an hour of peaceful rest,
To mourning wanderers given;
There is a tear for souls distressed,
A balm for every wounded breast-
'Tis found above-in heaven!

There is a soft, a downy bed,
'Tis fair as breath of even;

A couch for weary mortals spread,
Where they may rest the aching head,
And find repose in heaven!

THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH.

115

There is a home for weary souls,

By sin and sorrow driven;

When tossed on life's tempestuous shoals,
Where storms arise, and ocean rolls,
And all is drear-but heaven!

There faith lifts up the tearful eye,
The heart with anguish riven;
And views the tempest passing by,
The evening shadows quickly fly,
And all serene-in heaven!

There fragrant flowers immortal bloom,
And joys supreme are given:
There rays divine disperse the gloom:
Beyond the confines of the tomb,

Appears the dawn of heaven!

ANON.

THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH.

Ir matters little at what hour o' the day
The righteous falls asleep; death cannot come
To him untimely who is fit to die;

The less of this cold world, the more of heaven;
The briefer life, the earlier immortality.

MILMAN.

THE DESERTED HALL.

-THE gloom

Of a deserted banquet-room :-
To see the spider's web outvie
The torn and faded tapestry ;-

To shudder at the cold damp air,
Then think how once were blooming there
The incense-vase with odour flowing,
The silver lamp its softness throwing
O'er cheeks as beautiful and bright
As roses bathed in summer light;—
How through the portals sweeping came
Proud cavalier and high-born dame,
With gems like stars 'mid raven curls,
And snow-white plumes and wreathed pearls ;—
Gold cups, whose lighted flames made dim
The sparkling stones around the brim
Soft voices answering to the lute,

The swelling harp, the sigh-waked flute ;-
The glancing lightness of the dance;-
Then, starting sudden from thy trance,
Gaze round the lonely place and see
Its silence and obscurity:

Then commune with thine heart and say,
These are the foot-prints of decay,—

And I, even thus, shall pass away,

L. E. L.

MORN AT SEA.

'Tis glorious on the waters, (when young morn, Shows in the golden east his rosy face,

Laughing to see night's swift retreat,) to trace Our path midst spray and foam, like blossoms [thorn

torn

From the green hedgerow, when May clothes the
In robes of purest white. With rapid race
The light sail coyly flies the wind's embrace,
Eager to be pursued the while. As corn
Bends to the Autumn breeze, so bends the mast;
While like a sportive dolphin seems my boat;
And I, Arion on his back, may float,

And glimpse the mermaids as we hurry past,
Peering into the depths; where broken rocks
Protect sea flowers to deck their braided locks.

W. J. A.

A LAST SONG OF SUMMER.

OH! queenly fair Summer, thy beauty fades fast,

Thy flowers are all withered, thy glory is past; And low in the woods, with the dead leaves

around,

[sound, And the winds breathing o'er thee a desolate

In tears thou art lying.