WOODSTOCK MAZE. Oh, the shower and the sunshine every day, "I tune my lute and I straight forget, Though it weighs down my neck, woe's me, To the sill where my Jesu stands, I speak to him as to a child, he flies, Oh the leaves, brown, yellow, and red, still fall, "The golden evening burns right through I listen, all round me is only a grave, Will he come? I pluck the flower-leaves off, I blow the down from the dry hawkweed, Oh, the shower and the sunshine every day, "Hark! he comes! yet his footstep sounds Perhaps he thinks to steal on me, But I'll hide behind the door." She ran, she stopped, stood still as stone- And at once she felt what sudden death The hungering she-wolf bore! Oh the leaves, brown, yellow, and red, still fall, WEAVE no more the marriage chain; No more want of marriage bell! No more need of bridal favour! Where is she to wear them well? You, beside the lover, tell! Gone-with all the love he gave her! THE SEA FIGHT. Paler than the stone she lies: Colder than the winter's morning! Mother's care and lover's warning? Youth and beauty-shall they not This the sum of human sorrow! THE SEA FIGHT. THE Sun hath ridden into the sky, And the Night gone to her lair; On the mighty Deep, And all in the calm gray air. All seemeth as calm as an infant's dream, As far as the eye may ken : But the cannon blast, That just now passed, Hath awakened ten thousand men. An order is blown from ship to ship; All round and round it rings; And each sailor is stirred By the warlike word, And his jacket he downwards flings. He strippeth his arms to his shoulders strong; He girdeth his loins about; And he answers the cry Of his foemen nigh, With a cheer and a noble shout. BRYAN W. PROCTER. What follows?- a puff, and a flash of light, And a scream, that shoots To the heart's red roots, And we know that a fight's begun. A thousand shot are at once let loose: Like the Plague's swift breath, On its deed of death, And smites down a file of men. The guns in their thick-tongued thunder speak, And the frigates all rock and ride, And timbers crash, And the mad waves dash, Foaming all far and wide: And high as the skies run piercing cries, All telling one tale of woe, That the struggle still, Between good and ill, Goes on, in the earth below. Day pauses, in gloom, on his western road: The Moon returns again: But, of all who looked bright, In the morning light, There are only a thousand men. Look up, at the brooding clouds on high! Look up, at the awful sun! And, behold, the sea flood Is all red with blood: Hush! a battle is lost, --and won! CAROLINE NORTON. THE LADY OF THE CHACE. LIKE a sweet picture doth the Lady stand, Slims the young waist, and rounds the graceful breast. |