THE MESSAGE.

I had a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loves best. But I had my task to finish,

And she had gone home to rest!

To rest in the far bright Heaven,
Oh, so far away from here.
It was vain to speak to my darling,
For I knew she could not hear.

I had a message to send her,

So tender and true and sweet, I longed for an angel to bear it, And lay it down at her feet.

I placed it one summer evening,
On a little white cloud's breast,
But it faded in golden splendor,

And died in the crimson west.

I gave it the lark next morning,

And I watched it soar and soar,— But its pinions grew faint and weary, And it fluttered to earth once more.

I cried in my passionate longing, Has the earth no angel friend, Who will carry my love the message My heart desires to send?

'TIS ALL THAT I CAN SAY.

Then I heard a strain of music,

So mighty, so pure, so dear, That my very sorrow was silent, And my heart stood still to hear. It rose in harmonious rushing,

Of mingled voices and strings, And I tenderly laid my message

On the music's outspread wings. And I heard it flowing farther,

In sound more perfect than speechFarther than sight can follow,

Farther than soul can reach.

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And I know that at last my message
Has passed through the golden gate.
So my heart is no longer restless,
And I am content to wait.

ADELAIDE PROCTER.

"TIS ALL THAT I CAN SAY.

I love thee, I love thee,
"Tis all that I can say.
It is my vision in the night,
My dreaming in the day.
The very echo of my heart,
The blessing when I pray-
I love thee, I love thee,
"Tis all that I can say.

I love thee, I love thee,
Is ever on my tongue,
In all my proudest poesy,

That chorus still is sung-
It is the verdict of my eyes,
Amidst the gay and young—
I love thee, I love thee,
A thousand maids among.

I love thee, I love thee,

Thy bright and hazel glance, The mellow lute upon those lips

Whose tender tones entranceBut most dear heart of hearts thy proofs, That still those words enhance

I love thee, I love thee

Whatever be thy chance.

TOM HOOD.

SWEETHEARTS.

"Oh, take this flow'r, dear love," said he, He spake with a tearful sigh.

That night he was going across the sea,
And this was his last good-bye.

She took the gift with a mocking smile,
In the flush of her maiden pride,
With heartless guile she dallied awhile,
Then threw the flow'r aside.

LAST NIGHT.

"Give me a flow'r, dear love," said he,
She threw the flow'r he craved,
"Now by the love I have for thee
My breaking heart is saved."

He kissed it once with a tender sigh,
And treasured it near his heart,-
"Tho' years roll by this flower and I
Shall never, never part.”—

They met again in the after years,
In life's sad sorrowful time;

Their heads were heavy with age and tears,
And white with the winter rime.

He found the flow'r she scorned in play
At her faithful heart did dwell;
His flow'r they say, he had cast away,
Before its petals fell.

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Oh, love for a year,—a week—a day—
But alas for the love that loves alway,-
Oh, love for a year, a week—a day—

But alas! alas for the love that loves alway
W. S. GILBERT.

LAST NIGHT.

Last night the nightingale woke me,
Last night when all was still,

It sang in the golden moonlight,
From out the woodland hill.
I opened my window so gently;
I looked on the dreaming dew,—
And oh the bird, my darling,
Was singing, singing of you.

I think of you in the daytime,
I dream of you by night,

I wake and would you were here love,
And tears are blinding my sight.

I hear a low breath in the lime tree,
The wind is floating thro',
And oh! the night, my darling,
Is sighing, sighing for you.

O think not I can forget you;
I could not tho' I would,
I see you in all around me,

The stream, the night, the wood,
The flowers that slumber so gently,
The stars above the blue,
Oh! heaven itself my darling,
Is praying, praying for you.

CHR. WINTHER. English version, THEO. MARZIALI.