A WISH.

And something through the sunlight said: "Let all who love be blest!

The earth is wedded to the spring

And God, He knoweth best."

MARY E. DODGE.

A WISH.

MINE be a cot beside the hill!

A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy at her wheel shall sing,
In russet gown, and apron blue.

The village church, among the trees,

Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

1.39

A DAY-DREAM.

MINE eyes make pictures when they're shut:

I see a fountain, large and fair,

A willow and a ruined hut,

And thee, and me, and Mary there.

O Mary, make thy gentle lap our pillow!
Bend o'er us like a bower, my beautiful green willow!

A wild rose roofs the ruined shed,

And that and summer well agree;

And lo! where Mary leans her head,

Two dear names carved upon the tree!

And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow :
Our sister and our friend will both be here to-morrow.

'T was day! But now, few, large, and bright, The stars are round the crescent moon ;

And now it is a dark, warm night,

The balmiest of the month of June.

A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting,
Shines, and its shadow shines - fit stars for our sweet fountain!

O, ever, ever be thou blest!

For dearly, Nora, love I thee.

This brooding warmth across my breast-

This depth of tranquil bliss — ah, me!

IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED. 141

Fount, tree, and shed are gone, I know not whither;
But in one quiet room we three are still together.

The shadows dance upon the wall,

By the still-dancing fire-flames made; And now they slumber, moveless all;

And now they melt to one deep shade.

But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee:

I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee.

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play;

'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow!

But let me check this tender lay,

Which none may hear but she and thou.
Like the still hive, at quiet midnight humming,
Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women!

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED.

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be.

It never through my mind had past
That time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,

And thou shouldst smile no more.

142

IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED.

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook

That I must look in vain.

But when I speak, thou dost not say

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone.

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart

In thinking too of thee;

Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore.

CHARLES WOLFE.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

WOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!

In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand

That placed it near his cot; There, woodınan, let it stand: Thine axe shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke:

Cut not its earth-bound ties.

O, spare that aged oak,

Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy,
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here too my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here,

My father pressed my hand.

Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand.