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I strayed to lonely Fiesole

On many an eve, and thought of thee.

I thought of thee-I thought of thee,
In Rome, when, on the Palatine,
Night left the Cæsars' palace free

To Time's forgetful foot and mine.
Or on the Coliseum's wall,

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,
In Vallombrosa's holy shade,

Where nobles born the friars be,

By life's rude changes humbler made.
Here Milton framed his Paradise;
I slept within his very cell;
And, as I closed my weary eyes,

I thought the cowl would fit me well;
The cloisters breathed, it seemed to me,
Of heart's-ease-but I thought of thee.

I thought of thee-I thought of thee,
In Venice, on a night in June;
When, through the city of the sea,

Like dust of silver, slept the moon.
Slow turned his oar the gondolier,
And, as the black barks glided by,
The water, to my leaning ear,

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
In the Ionian isles, when straying

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 listened to the helmsman Greek,
Who sung the song that Sappho knew:
The poet's spell, the bark, the sea,
All vanished as I thought of thee.

I thought of thee-I thought of thee,
In Greece, when rose the Parthenon
Majestic o'er the Egean sea,

And heroes with it, one by one;
When, in the grove of Academe,
Where Lais and Leontium strayed
Discussing Plato's mystic theme,

I lay at noontide in the shade-
The Egean wind, the whispering tree,
Had voices-and I thought of thee.

I thought of thee-I thought of thee,
In Asia, at the Dardanelles,
Where, swiftly as the waters flee,

Each wave some sweet old story tells;
And, seated by the marble tank

Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old
(The fount where peerless Helen drank,
And Venus laved her locks of gold),
I thrilled such classic haunts to see,
Yet even here I thought of thee.

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,
In every star thine eyes are set.
Though roving beneath orient skies,
Whose golden beauty breathes of rest,
I envy every bird that flies

Into the far and clouded west;

I think of thee-I think of thee!
O dearest! hast thou thought of me?

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,
He knew not what to do,
Till, pressing through a tiny hole,
At length away he flew;

Unhurt at length away he flew.

And now, from every fond regret
And idle anguish free,

He singing says, "You need not set
Another trap for me,

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.
THOU bright and star-like spirit,
That, in my visions wild,
I see mid heaven's seraphic host-
Oh canst thou be my child?

My grief is quenched in wonder,
And pride arrests my sighs;
A branch from this unworthy stock
Now blossoms in the skies!

Our hopes of thee were lofty,
But have we cause to grieve?
Oh could our fondest, proudest wish
A nobler fate conceive?

The little weeper tearless,

The sinner snatched from sin;

The babe, to more than manhood grown,
Ere childhood did begin.

And I, thy earthly teacher,

Would blush thy powers to see;
Thou art to me a parent now,

And I a child to thee!

Thy brain, so uninstructed

While in this lowly state,

Now threads the mazy track of spheres,
Or reads the book of fate.

Thine

eyes, so curbed in vision,

Now range the realms of space—
Look down upon the rolling stars,

Look up to God's own face.

Thy little hand, so helpless,

That scarce its toys could hold,
Now clasps its mate in holy prayer,

Or twangs a harp of gold.

Thy feeble feet, unsteady,

That tottered as they trod,

With angels walk the heavenly paths,
Or stand before their God.

Nor is thy tongue less skilful;
Before the throne divine
'Tis pleading for a mother's weal,
As once she prayed for thine.

What bliss is born of sorrow!
'Tis never sent in vain-
The heavenly surgeon maims to save,
He gives no useless pain.

Our God, to call us homeward,
His only Son sent down:

And now, still more to tempt our hearts,
Has taken up our own.

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,
And birds sang blithe in bower and tree-

A stranger, but her gentle mien

It was a calm delight to see.

In every motion grace was hers;
On every feature sweetness dwelt ;
Thoughts soon became her worshipers-
Affections soon before her knelt.

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