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I THINK OF THEE.

BY T. K. HERVEY.

I THINK of thee, in the night
When all beside is still,

And the moon comes out, with her pale sad light,
To sit on the lonely hill :-

When the stars are all like dreams,

And the breezes all like sighs,

And there comes a voice from far off streams,
Like thy spirit's low replies!

I think of thee by day,

'Mid the cold and busy crowd,

When the laughter of the young and

Is far too glad and loud;

I hear thy low sad tone,

And thy sweet young smile I see,

-My heart-my heart were all alone,
But for its dreams of thee!

Of thee, who wert so dear,

And yet, I do not weep;

gay

For thine eyes were stained by many a tear

Before they went to sleep;

And, if I haunt the past,

Yet may I not repine,

That thou hast won thy rest at last,

And all the grief is mine.

I think upon thy gain,

Whate'er to me it cost,

And fancy dwells, with less of pain,
On all that I have lost;

Hope-like the cuckoo's endless tale,
-Alas! it wears her wing!

And love, that—like the nightingale—
Sings only in the spring!

42

I THINK OF THEE.

Thou art my spirit's all,

Just as thou wert in youth;

Still from thy grave no shadows fall
Upon my lonely truth;

A taper yet above thy tomb,

Since lost its sweeter rays,

And what is memory through the gloom, Was hope in brighter days!

I am pining for the home

Where sorrow sinks to sleep,
Where the weary and the weepers come,
And they cease to toil and weep!
Why walk about with smiles,

That each should be a tear,
Vain as the summer's glowing spoils,
Above an early bier.

Oh, like those fairy things,-
Those insects of the east,

Which have their beauty in their wings,
And shroud it while they rest;
Which fold their colours of the sky,
When earthward they alight,
And flash their splendours on the eye,
Only to take their flight ;-

I never knew how dear thou wert,
Till thou wert borne away!

I have it yet about my heart,
Thy beauty of that day;

As if the robe thou wert to wear,
In other climes, were given,
That I might learn to know it there,
And seek thee out in heaven!

EXCUSE

FOR NOT FULFILLING AN ENGAGEMENT.

BY LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

My friend, I gave a glad assent
To your request at noon,
But now I find I cannot leave
My little ones so soon.
Early I came, and as my feet
First entered at the door,-
"Remember," to myself I said,

"You must dismiss at four."
But slates, and books, and maps appear,
And many a dear one cries,
"Oh, tell us where that river runs,

And where these mountains rise, And where that blind old monarch reigned, And who was king before;

And stay a little after five,

And tell us something more,"
And then my little Alice comes,
And who unmoved can view
The glance of that imploring eye,—
"Pray teach me something too."
Yet who would think, amid the toil,
(Though scarce a toil it be,)
That through the door the muses coy,
Should deign to peep at me.
Each brow is somewhat cold and stern,
As if it fain would say,-

"We did not know you kept a school,
We must have lost our way."

Their visit was but short indeed,

As these slight numbers show,

But, ah! they bade me write with speed,My friend, I cannot go.

FORGET THEE?

BY THE REV. JOHN MOULTRIE.

"FORGET thee?"-If to dream by night, and muse on thee by day;

If all the worship, deep and wild, a poet's heart can pay, If prayers in absence, breathed for thee to heaven's protecting power,

If winged thoughts that flit to thee-a thousand in an hour,

If busy Fancy, blending thee with all my future lot,— If this thou call'st "forgetting," thou, indeed, shalt be forgot!

"Forget thee?"-Bid the forest birds forget their

sweetest tune!

"Forget thee?"-Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the

moon;

Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's refreshing dew;

Thyself forget thine "own dear land," and its "mountains wild and blue;"

Forget each old familiar face, each long-remembered spot:

When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot!

Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and fancy-free;

For, God forbid! thy gladsome heart should grow less glad for me;

Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh, bid not mine

to rove!

But let it muse its humble faith, and uncomplaining love;

If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not, Forget me then ;-but ne'er believe that thou canst be forgot!

ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER.

BY PROFESSOR WILSON.

MAGNIFICENT creature! so stately and bright!
In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight;
For what hath the child of the desert to dread,
Wafting up his own mountains that far beaming head;
Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale !-
Hail! king of the wild and the beautiful !—hail !
Hail! idol divine !-whom nature hath borne

O'er a hundred hill tops since the mists of the morn,
Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain and

moor,

As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore;
For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free,
Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee;
Up! up to yon cliff! like a king to his throne!
O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone--
A throne which the eagle is glad to resign
Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine.
There the bright heather springs up in love of thy breast,
Lo! the clouds in the depths of the sky are at rest;
And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill!
In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers lie still !—
Though your branches now toss in the storm of delight,
Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height,
One moment-thou bright apparition-delay!
Then melt o'er the craigs, like the sun from the day.

His voyage is o'er-as if struck by a spell,
He motionless stands in the hush of the dell ;
There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast,
In the midst of his pastime enamoured of rest.
A stream in a clear pool that endeth its race-
A dancing ray chained to one sunshiny place-

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