DANCE LIGHT! And now on the green the glad groups are seen, Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee, And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in motion; With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground; The maids move around just like swans on the ocean: Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe's, THE PHANTOM. Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing. Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground, No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing. Sweet Kate who could view your bright eyes of deep blue, "Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!" JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. THE PHANTOM. AGAIN I sit within the mansion, In the old familiar seat; And shade and sunshine chase each other O'er the carpet at my feet. But the sweetbrier's arms have wrestled upwards, In the summers that are past, And the willow trails its branches lower Than when I saw them last. They strive to shut the sunshine wholly THE PHANTOM. To fill the house, that once was joyful, And many kind, remembered faces They sing, in tones as glad as ever, They braid the rose in summer garlands, And still, her footsteps in the passage, Her timid words of maiden welcome, And all forgetful of my sorrow, I think she has but newly left me, She stays without, perchance, a moment, O, fluttering heart, control thy tumult, THE MORNING-GLORY. My cheeks betray the rush of rapture She tarries long: but lo, a whisper And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, Ah! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me, And my patient heart must still await her, But my heart grows sick with weary waiting, As many a time before: Her foot is ever at the threshold, Yet never passes o'er. BAYARD TAYLOR. THE MORNING-GLORY. WE wreathed about our darling's head The morning-glory bright; Her little face looked out beneath, So full of life and light, So lit as with a sunrise, That we could only say THE MORNING-GLORY. So always, from that happy time, For sure as morning came, As from the trellis smiles the flower But not so beautiful they rear As turned her sweet eyes to the light, We used to think how she had come, The last and perfect added gift To crown Love's morning hour; We never could have thought, O God! Almost before a day was flown, Like the morning-glory's cup; |