I strayed to lonely Fiesole On many an eve, and thought of thee. I thought of thee-I thought of thee, To Time's forgetful foot and mine. When moonlight touched the ivied stone, Reclining, with a thought of all That o'er this scene hath come and gone, The shades of Rome would start and flee Unconsciously-I thought of thee. I thought of thee-I thought of thee, Where nobles born the friars be, By life's rude changes humbler made. I thought the cowl would fit me well; I thought of thee-I thought of thee, Like dust of silver, slept the moon. Bore back the lover's passing sigh; It was no place alone to be; I thought of thee-I thought of thee. I thought of thee-I thought of thee With wise Ulysses by the sea, Old Homer's songs around me playing; Or, watching the bewitched caique That o'er the star-lit waters flew, I thought of thee-I thought of thee, And heroes with it, one by one; I lay at noontide in the shade- I thought of thee-I thought of thee, Each wave some sweet old story tells; Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old I thought of thee-I thought of thee, Where glide the Bosphor's lovely waters, All palace-lined from sea to sea : And ever on its shores the daughters Of the delicious east are seen, Printing the brink with slippered feet, And O the snowy folds between, What eyes of heaven your glances meet! Peris of light no fairer be; Yet, in Stamboul, I thought of thee. I've thought of thee-I've thought of thee, Through change that teaches to forget; Thy face looks up from every sea, Into the far and clouded west; I think of thee-I think of thee! THEODORE S. FAY. [Born in 1807. Became a barrister ; settled in Europe in 1833, and has for the most part resided there since then, having been appointed Minister to Switzerland in 1853. His chief poem is named Ulric, or the Voices, 1851-55: but he is better known as a writer of prose fiction]. SONG. A CARELESS Simple bird, one day Fluttering in Flora's bowers, Fell in a cruel trap which lay All hid among the flowers, Forsooth, the pretty, harmless flowers. The spring was closed; poor silly soul, Unhurt at length away he flew. And now, from every fond regret He singing says, "You need not set False girl! another trap for me." THOMAS WARD. [Born in 1807. Adopted the medical profession ; but eventually quitted it for literature and general studies. Passaic, a Group of Poems touching that River, published in 1841, is his leading work in verse]. TO AN INFANT IN HEAVEN. My grief is quenched in wonder, Our hopes of thee were lofty, The little weeper tearless, The sinner snatched from sin; The babe, to more than manhood grown, And I, thy earthly teacher, Would blush thy powers to see; And I a child to thee! Thy brain, so uninstructed While in this lowly state, Now threads the mazy track of spheres, Thine eyes, so curbed in vision, Now range the realms of space— Look up to God's own face. Thy little hand, so helpless, That scarce its toys could hold, Or twangs a harp of gold. Thy feeble feet, unsteady, That tottered as they trod, With angels walk the heavenly paths, Nor is thy tongue less skilful; What bliss is born of sorrow! Our God, to call us homeward, And now, still more to tempt our hearts, WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. [Born in Philadelphia in 1808, of an Irish father. Mr. Gallagher has been mainly occupied as a journalist in Cincinnati, and other cities of the West]. THE INVALID. SHE came in Spring, when leaves were green, A stranger, but her gentle mien It was a calm delight to see. In every motion grace was hers; |