Still on my worn cheek playeth Still on its freshness strayeth Still the blue streamlet gusheth- But who shall bring our meetings What shall recall thy greetings- Summer's gone! SONNET. ANONYMOUS. THERE was a soft enchantment in her eye, SONG OF THE MONTH. ANONYMOUS. COME to thy home, beloved! The time for thy toil is ending : I've made thee a rest, come see, Where our last few flowers are bending A sweet farewell to thee ! Come to thy home, beloved! Come to thy home, beloved! The mists they are thick, remember; Come to thy home, beloved! There's an eye that longs to meet thee; And the fire is blazing clear, And O! such a heart to greet thee, Will that not tempt thee here? Come to thy home, beloved! Come to thy home, beloved! Come! how the vapour thickens. Will this watching ne'er be past? There's a footstep.-Hark! it quickens. Ah! thou art here at last Here, at thy home, beloved. WHERE SHALL WE MAKE HER GRAVE? MRS, HEMANS. WHERE shall we make her grave? Where shower and singing-bird Harsh was the world to her Now may sleep minister Balm for each ill: Low on sweet Nature's breast, Let the meek heart find rest, Murmur glad waters, by! Come wandering o'er That green and mossy bed, Where, on a gentle head, Storms beat no more! What though for her in vain Yet still, from where she lies, Therefore let song and dew Life's vernal glow! And o'er that holy earth Scents of the violet's birth Still come and go! Oh! then where wild-flowers wave, In the free air! Where shower and singing-bird HOPE COMES AGAIN. MOORE. HOPE comes again, to this heart long a stranger- Long, long in sorrow too deep for repining, Fly, then, ye visions, that hope would shed o'er me- VERY GOOD COMPANY. BARRY CORNWALL. SING! Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings The VINE, boys, the VINE! O'er wall and tree; And sometimes very good company. Drink!-Who drinks To her who blusheth, and never thinks O, never let her escape Until she be turned to Wine For better is she Than vine can be, And very, very good company Dream!-Who dreams Of the god who governs a thousand streams? Ah, who is this spirit fine? 'Tis WINE, boys, WINE! God Bacchus, a friend of mine. O better is he Than grape or tree, And best of all, good company |