A SEA-SIDE SONG. JOVE-LADEN from the lighted west Far off, the dark green rocks about, All night shines, faint and fair, the far light: Far off, the lone, late fishers' shout From boat to boat i' the listening starlight: Far off, and fair, the sea lies bare, Leagues, leagues beyond the reach of rowing: Up creek and cove the smooth wave swells And falls asleep; or, inland flowing, Twinkles among the silver shells, From sluice to sluice of shallow wells; A Sea-side Song. Or down dark pools of purple glowing, In his own dim, dreamlike brilliancy. And I feel the dark sails growing And I catch the warm west blowing OWEN MEREDITH. 51 FLOWERS. FLOWERS! when the Saviour's calm benignant eye Then in the bosom of your purity A voice He set, as in a simple shrine, That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by Unwarned of that sweet oracle divine. MRS. HEMANS. MY LOVE. OT as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far Beneath the silver evening-star, And yet her heart is ever near. Great feelings hath she of her own God giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot; Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share. She doeth little kindnesses Which most leave undone or despise; For nought that sets one's heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low esteemèd in her eyes. My Love. She hath no scorn of common things; And though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth. Blessing she is, God made her so; She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes. She is a woman-one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost the fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears. 53 J. R. LOWELL. TRUE LOVE-ETERNAL. HERE is a love! 'tis not the wandering fire, Gleam of polluted hearts, the meteor-ray That fades as rises Reason's nobler day- Like the raised dead-our dust transformed to light. Not his who meets them least, but bears them best. Life must be toil! yet oh, that toil how drear, But for this soother of its brief career!— The charm, that virtue, beauty, fondness bind |