Oh! how mournfully, how mournfully, the thought comes o'er my brain, When I think thou ne'er may'st be that free and girlish thing again. I would that as my heart dictates, just such might be my lay, And my voice should be a voice of mirth, a music like the May; But it may not be !-within my breast all frozen are the springs, The murmur dies upon the lip-the music on the strings. But a voice is floating round me, and it tells me in my rest, That sunshine shall illume thy path, that joy shall be thy guest, That thy life shall be a summer's day, whose evening shall go down, Like the evening in the eastern clime, that never knows a frown. When thy foot is at the altar, when the ring hath pressed thy hand, When those thou lov'st, and those that love thee, weeping round thee stand, Oh may the verse that friendship weaves, like a spirit of the air, Be o'er thee at that moment-for a blessing and a prayer! BYRON. BY W. KENNEDY. THE forfeit's paid,-we pardon thee,-- Will never know decay. The monarch of the melody Is risen from his throne, And who shall lead the harmony, Attendant on the minstrel's form From earth and air, in calm and storm, In water and in flame; The children of the Universe Obeyed the magic of his verse, Things lovely, to the wondering eyes He died too, as he wished to die, E'er fixed its taint on thee; And in that latest, loneliest hour, There lives for me a thought with power The consciousness that I shall be Permitted to obtain A place in thy community With those who most resemble thee. STANZAS FOR EVENING. BY LAMAN BLANCHARD. THERE is an hour when leaves are still, and winds sleep on the wave; When far beneath the closing clouds the day hath found a grave; And stars that at the note of dawn begin their circling flight, Return like sun-tired birds, to seek the sable boughs of night. The curtains of the mind are closed, and slumber is most sweet, And visions to the hearts of men direct their fairy feet; LYRE. Y 254 STANZAS FOR EVENING. The wearied wing hath gained a tree, pain sighs itself to rest, And beauty's bridegroom lies upon the pillow of her breast. There is a feeling in that hour which tumult ne'er hath known, Which nature seems to dedicate to silent things alone; The spirit of the lonely wakes, as rising from the dead, And finds its shroud adorned with flowers, its nightlamp newly fed. The mournful moon her rainbows hath, and 'mid the blight of all That garlands life, some blossoms live, like lilies on a pall; Thus while to lone affliction's couch some strangerjoy may come, The bee that hoardeth sweets all day hath sadness in its hum. Yet some there are whose fire of years leaves no remembered spark, Whose summer-time itself is bleak, whose very daybreak dark. The stem, though naked, still may live, the leaf, though perished, cling; But if at first the root be cleft, it lies a branchless thing. And oh! to such, long, hallowed nights their patient music send; The hours like drooping angels walk, more graceful as they bend; And stars emit a hope-like ray, that melts as it comes nigh, And nothing in that calm hath life that doth not wish to die. FAREWELL TO WALES. BY MRS. HEMANS. THE Voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear, I bless thee! yet not for the beauty which dwells I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat May the blessing, like sunshine, around thee be spread, THE RHINE. THE Rhine! the Rhine!-May on thy flowing river The sun for ever shine! And on thy banks may freedom's light fade never !— The Rhine! the Rhine !-My fancy still is straying, Of auburn locks in balmy zephyrs playing :- |