The river's touch'd with glowing light, While heaven's blush has lent its hues Still, are you folded to your dreams? If they surpass the gorgeousness Good night! the stars are gemming heaven, And seem like angel's eyes, Resuming now their silent watch Within the far-off skies; They nightly on their burning thrones Like guardian spirits, keep Familiar vigil o'er the world, And we do thrill beneath their beams, And start, and tremble, wildly, like Now, lo! you burst your emerald bonds, And ope your languid eyes, And spread your loveliness before Those dwellers of the skies; While incense, from your grateful hearts, "Ask and ye shall receive," you seem And move me in your worshipping Sweet teachers! 'tis an hour for prayer, When hush'd are sounds of mirth, And slumber rests his balmy wing Upon the weary earth: When all the ties that bind the soul To worldliness, are riven Then heart-felt prayers, like loosen'd birds Will wing their way to heaven. THE FLOWER-GARDEN. BY R. M. MILNES. O PENSIVE Sister! thy tear-darken'd gaze Thou thinkest of the withering that must come, Thou thinkest too of those more precious blooms The firstling honours of thy Life's fresh field, The childly feelings that have all their tombs, The hopes of youth that now no odours yield: Still many a blessed sense, in living glee, Tells thee, they all will perish like the rest: Yet pluck them, hurt them not; whate'er betides, Touch not with wilful force those flowers thine, Let death receive them, his inviolate brides, And if those children of the insensate earth Go down in peace tó a prolific grave, If Nature raises in continuous birth The plant whose present grace she will not save, So some deep-grounded root or visible seed, When these heart-blossoms fade, may still remain, In a new season of thy being, decreed To rise to light and loveliness again. THE FRAGRANT AIR-FLOWER. BY T. K. HERVEY. MEN say there is a gentle flower, Fed only by that sacred air And thou art like that fairy thing, Who, with the star-flowers of thine eyes, -My weary heart! my weary heart' It is a pleasant thing To wander from the crowd apart, When faint, and chill'd, and cold thou art, And fold thy restless wing, Beside the sweet and quiet streams Where grow life's lily-bells, And peace-that feeds on happy dreams, And love, beside the gushing springs, Like some young Naiad, sits and sings! To leave awhile the barren height, As if the spirit's upward flight |