And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame; Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear, They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea! And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang To the anthems of the free! The ocean-eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared, — This was their welcome home! There were men with hoary hair There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, 136 A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found, — A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. Willis. SHE had been told that God made all the stars Of sunset, where the blue was melted in To the first golden mellowness, a star TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS. — Leigh Hunt. SLEEP breathes at last from out thee, And balmy rest about thee Thy sidelong, pillowed meekness, Thy thanks to all that aid, Thy heart, in pain and weakness, The little trembling hand That wipes thy quiet tears, These, these are things that may demand Dread memories for years. Sorrows I've had, severe ones And calmly, midst my dear ones, 138 THE DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. Ah! first-born of thy mother, go, My bird when prison-bound, - Yes, still he's fixed and sleeping! Like parting wings of cherubim, Who say, "We've finished here." THE DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. Collins. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, No wailing ghost shall dare appear And youthful virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew. The redbreast oft at evening's hours When howling winds, and beating rain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell; Each lonely scene shall thee restore, THE PASSAGE. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. MANY a year is in its grave, |