And hearts that had been long estranged, And friends that had grown cold, Should meet again like parted streams, And mingle as of old. Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's In casting bliss around; The heart that had been mourning Like Noah's faithful dove. And Hope should launch her blessed bark On Sorrow's darkening sea, Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's In casting bliss around; THE ANGELS' WHISPER. A BABY was sleeping, its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; And the tempest was swelling, round the fisherman's dwelling, And she cried, "Dermot darling, oh! come back to me." Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face, as she bended her knee. "Oh! blessed be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. "And while they are keeping bright watch o'er thy sleeping, Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me; And say thou wouldst rather they'd watch'd o'er thy father. For I know that the angels are whis pering with thee." The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see, And closely caressing her child, with a blessing, Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee." THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY. 1797-1839. [BORN in 1797, the son of an eminent and wealthy solicitor near Bath. Destined for the church, he studied for some time at Oxford, but ultimately came to depend chiefly on literature for support. His latter years were marked by misfortune. Died in 1839. He was, next to Moore, the most successful song writer of our age. Several of them, as She Wore a Wreath of Roses and Oh, no, we Never Mention Him, attained to an extraordinary degree of popularity.]] My lips are now forbid to speak that They bid me seek in change of scene once familiar word: the charms that others see; ISLE OF BEAUTY, FARE THEB SHADES of ev❜ning close not o'er us, Sunny spots where friends may dwell; 'Tis the hour when happy faces Who will sing our songs to-night? When the waves are round me breaking, As I pace the deck alone, And my eye is vainly seeking Some green leaf to rest upon; When on that dear land. I ponder, Where my old companions dwell, Absence makes the heart grow fonderIsle of Beauty, fare thee well! THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. THE matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow, Sits gazing on her lovely face-ay, lovely even now: Why doth she lean upon her hand with such a look of care? Why steals that tear across her cheek?— She sees her first gray hair. fime from her form hath ta'en away but little of its grace; His touch of thought hath dignified the beauty of her face; Yet she might mingle in the dance where maidens gaily trip, So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautiful her lip. The faded form is often mark'd by sorrow more than years; The wrinkle on the cheek may be the course of secret tears; The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er confest, And the dimness of the eye betray a heart that cannot rest. THOMAS HOOD. 1799-1845. [THOMAS HOOD was born in London in May, 1799. His chief poetical works, scattered during his lifetime in various publications, are contained in two volumes entitled respectively Poems, 1846, and Poems of Wit and Humour, 1847. A complete edition of his works appeared in 1862. He died in May, 1845, and was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, where some years after his death a monument was erected to him by public subscription.] THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. WITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, Plying her needle and thread- In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt! " Look at her garments Touch her not scornfully; Gently and humanly; Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Rash and undutiful; Past all dishonor, Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, Loop up her tresses, Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home? Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, or a nearer one Alas! for the rarity Sisterly, brotherly, Feelings had changed; When the lamps quiver The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver, But not the dark arch Or the black flowing river. In she plunged boldly, Dissolute man! Then, if you can. Take her up tenderly, Ere her limbs frigidly Smooth and compose them; Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, Perishing gloomily, Cross her hands humbly, |