THE SOUL THAT WAS SHROUDED .

I.

The soul that was shrouded in sorrow's dark night
A peace-promising beam woke to gladness and light;
And the lute, that so long lorn and tuneless had hung,
Once more with the wild notes of melody rung!

II.

Ah! why did that beam only shine to beguile, —
Ah! why did it teach the fond mourner to smile?
Why faithlessly grant him a seeming reprieve,
Then leave him in sadness still deeper to grieve?

III.

The light is gone by — and the music is o'er,

AND DOST THOU LOVE THE LYRE ?

I.

And dost thou love the Lyre,
Those strains the Nine inspire?
Ah! beware the spell,
Some have proved too well,
Nor follow a wandering fire, Mary!

II.

For genius is only a dream,
An ignis fatuus gleam,
That just lends its light;
But — when sorrow's night
Is deepest — withdraws its beam, Mary!

III.

'Tis a passionate sense refined,
That spells the enthusiast's mind;

LEIGH HUNT .

Despite misfortune, poverty, the dearth
Of simplest justice to his heart and brain, —
This gracious Optimist lived not in vain;
Rather, he made a partial Heaven of Earth;
For whatsoe'er of pure and cordial birth
In body or soul, dawned on him, he was fain
To bless and love, as an immortal gain,
A thing divine, of fair immaculate worth: —
The clearest, cleanest nature given to man
In these, our latter days, methinks was his,
With instincts which alone did bring him bliss;

(Lowell)

Dead he lies at Elmwood,
Who sang of human fortitude;
Who voiced the higher, clearer way
By which all nobler spirits may
Rise to the rims of God's pure light
Over the edges of earth's night;
Who sang of manhood's highest best,
Like some sweet Arnold of the West,
With more of kinship in his blood
With the great struggling human brood.
With more of lyric in his note,
More of the clarion in his throat,
Tuned to the brawnier West,
He sang the songs our men love best.

Upon a Diamond Cross,

WORN ON HER BOSOM BY MISS C.M.

Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear
The sparkling cross, with hopes to soften Heaven;
For trust me, tho' so very young and fair,
Thou hast some little sins to be forgiven: —
For all the hopes which wit and grace can spread,
For all the sighs which countless charms can move,
Fall, lovely Kitty! on thy youthful head;
Yet fall they gently — for the crime is love.

Sister, sweet sister, years have passed away,
Since first, 'mid warm hearts, sunny, frank and true,
I commenced rhyming on thy natal day,
On the green sod where Erin's shamrock grew.

'Twas in that age that ne'er returns again,
Whose tears are but as dew on Summer flowers;
And young, warm hearts beat kindly round us then,
And eyes beamed brightly, answering love to ours.

And now an exile from my native land,
Thinking of well remembered, loved Grace Hill,
To mine own sister verses I will send,

Who is the maid with silken hair
By clear Maine Water roaming?
For the fairy Queen is not so fair
As she in the lonely gloaming.

It is sweet Mysie of Bellee,
John Millar's lovely daughter;
She is waiting where the old elm tree
Droops over the sweet Maine Water.

" The trysting time has come and past,
The day is fast declining;
Oh my true love, are you coming fast,
For the star of love is shining? "

" The moon is bright, the ford is safe,
The market folks crossed over;
Oh, come to me, it is wearing late,

MADE FOR OUR AMUSEMENT ONE EVENING .

There was a little maiden,
And cross and proud was she,
And I loved her very much,
And she loved me!

She determined to live single,
And I begged and prayed her not,
So at last she married me,
And I pitied her hard lot,

There was another maiden
Who hated me, and I
Hated her — she loved her lover
Always best when I was by.

Soft o'er the meadow, and murmuring mere,
Falleth a shadow, near and more near;
Day like a white dove floats down the sky,
Cometh the night, love, darkness is high;
So dies the happiest day.

Slow in thy dark eye riseth a tear,
Hear I thy sad sigh, Sorrow is near;
Hope smiling bright, love, dies on my breast,
As day like a white dove flies down the west;
So dies the happiest day.

Gently fall the snow-flakes
From the clouds above,
Noiselessly and joyously
As the breath of love,
Noiseless in their gaiety,
Gentle in their mirth,
As they spread their robes of purity
Softly o'er the earth.

Beauteous types of Innocence!
Delicately fair
As the thoughts of Angels
Hov'ring in the air:
Not less pure and innocent
Is each little dove, —
Each joyous, sparkling snow-drop
In the cot of Love.

Yes, prattling little Children!
Germs of Love are ye,
Spotless as the snow-drops,