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Give back the lost and lovely! Those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long; The prayer went up thro' midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,
-But all is not thine own!
To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow the tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown!
-Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead : Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee,
Restore the dead, thou Sea!
I NEVER cast a flower away,
The gift of one who cared for me,
But it was done reluctantly.
I never look'd a last adieu
To things familiar, but my heart
E'en from their lifelessness to part.
I never spoke the word Farewell!
But with an utterance faint and broken ;
When it should never more be spoken.
AN EVENING WALK IN BENGAL.
OUR task is done!-on Gunga's breast
Come walk with me the jungle through : If yonder hunter told us true, Far off in desert dank and rude, The tiger holds his solitude ; Nor (taught by recent harm to shun The thunders of the English gun) A dreadful guest but rarely seen, Returns to scare the village green. Come boldly on; no venom'd snake Can shelter in so cool a brake ; Child of the sun, he loves to lie 'Mid Nature's embers, parch'd and dry, Where o'er some tower in ruin laid, The peepul spreads its haunted shade,
Or round a tomb his scales to wreathe,
Before, beside us, and above, The fire fly lights his lamp of love, Retreating, chasing, sinking, soaring, The darkness of the copse exploring; While to this cooler air confess'd The broad Dhatura bares her breast Of fragrant scent and virgin white, A pearl around the locks of night! Still as we pass, in softened hum, Along the breezy alleys come The village song, the horn, the drum. Still as we pass, from bush and briar The shrill cigala strikes his lyre ; And what is she, whose liquid strain Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane? I know that soul-entrancing swell! It is it must be Philomel.
Enough, enough, the rustling trees
L. E. LANDON.
The wind is sweeping o'er the hill ;
It hath a mournful sound,
Its weary wing hath found.
Swept over leaf and flower :
And bloom for every hour.
It wandered through the pleasant wood,
And caught the dove's lone song ;
The rose's breath along.
No rose is opening now-
Is vacant on the bough.
Oh, human heart and wandering wind,
Go look upon the past;
Their summer did not last.
One o'er a flower and leaf; The other over hopes and joys,
Whose beauty was as brief.