A LOVE LETTER. About the lonely casement of this room, Which you have left familiar with the grace 117 That grows where you have been. And on the gloom I almost fancy I can see your face. Perchance I shall not ever see again That face. I know that I shall never see With childhood's starry graces lingering yet Man cannot make, but may ennoble, fate, By nobly bearing it. So let us trust Love's orient out of darkness and of dust. Farewell, and yet again farewell, and yet Alone and disunited. Love hath set Our days in music, to the self-same air; And I shall feel, wherever we may be, Even though in absence, and an alien clime, The shadow of the sunniness of thee, Hovering, in patience, through a clouded time. Farewell! the dawn is rising, and the light Sonnet. ́HENE'ER I recollect the happy time WH When you and I held converse, dear, together, There come a thousand thoughts of sunny weather, Of early blossoms and the fresh year's prime : Your memory lives forever in my mind With all the fragrant beauties of the Spring, With odorous lime and silver hawthorn twined, And many a noon-day woodland wandering. There's not a thought of you but brings along Some sunny dream of river, field, and sky; 'Tis wafted on the blackbird's sunset song, Or some wild snatch of ancient melody. And as I date it still, our love arose 'Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose. FRANCES ANNE KEMBle. Lines Written in an Album. S o'er the cold sepulchral stone AS Some name arrests the passer-by, And think my heart is buried here. LORD BYRON. LANGLEY LANE. 119 Langley Lane. N all the land, range up, range down, IN Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet Just out of the bustle of square and street? For now, in summer, I take my chair, And sit outside in the sun, and hear And the swallows and sparrows chirping near; With her little hand's touch so warm and kind; Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear, And I am older by summers three, Why should we hold each other so dear? Because she cannot utter a word, Nor hear the music of bee or bird, The water-cart's splash or the milkman's call ! Because I have never seen the sky, Nor the little singers that hum and fly,— Yet know she is gazing upon them all! For the sun is shining, the swallows fly, With its cool splash! splash! down the dusty row; Where birds are chirping in summer shine; And I hear, though I cannot look, and she, Though she cannot hear, can the singers see,— And the little soft fingers flutter in mine. Hath not the dear little hand a tongue, 'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir, That I only hear as they pass around; And I am happy to keep God's sound. -- Why, I know her face, though I am blind,-- Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined Round the pensive light of a brow of snow; And when I sit by my little one, And hold her hand and talk in the sun, And hear the music that haunts the place, I know she is raising her eyes to me, Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer, (I know the fancy is only vain), I should pray, just once, when the weather is fair, A SONG OF THE CAMP. Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear The song of the birds, the hum of the street,- Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen, Ah! life is pleasant in Langley Lane! There is always something sweet to hearChirping of birds or patter of rain, And Fanny, my little one, always near. And though I am weakly and can't live long, And Fanny my darling is far from strong, And though we never can married be,— What then?-since we hold each other so dear, For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear, And the pleasure that only one can see? ROBERT BUCHANAN. 121 A Song of the Camp. IVE us a song!" the soldiers cried, "GIVE The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camp allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff, There was a pause. A guardsman said: "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow." |