THE DEAD INFANT. A SKETCH. "It is not dead, but sleepeth!" YES! this is Death! but in its fairest form, Yes! this is Death!-but like a cherub's sleep, Here might the sculptor gaze, until his hand The still, calm brow-the smile on either cheek, Proud Science, come! learn of this beauteous clay, Yes! this is Death! but in its fairest form, That holds its revel-feast with frail mortality! THE ESCAPED CONVICT. BY CHARLES SWAIN. HE trod his native land, The bright land of the free; His forehead wore a seared brand- His brow-where youth and beauty met-- He gazed upon the vale, Where spring-tide flowerets slept, Rocked by the whispers of the gale; Like drops which page a storm they came, Morn sat upon the hills, But she looked cold and dim; All, e'en his loved, his mother land, My sire! my sire! he groaned; I hear all curse-I see all shun ;- I saw her struck, whose cheek Whose eyes, whose form-but wherefore speak- LYRE. Ꮓ 266 THE ESCAPED CONVICT. She loved me she was sworn my bride; For this the record lies, For this the rabble mocked my cries! For this-half withered must I be, Ere my My own, my beauteous land, I ask'd but this, of Fate's stern hand- The Moon looked on the vale, And soft displayed a form, that, pale, The Zephyrs drew a lengthened sigh, 'Twas said, that lovely night, A spirit youth was seen, Gliding among the flowerets bright, The trees and meadows green; And chiefly by a cot; and there THE LEGEND OF GENEVIEVE. BY DELTA. THE VISION. I CALL upon thee in the night, Thou stand'st before me silently, The trembling azure of thine eye, Calm as the pure and silent deep, When winds are hushed and waves asleep. Thou gazest on me!-but thy look Of angel tenderness, So pierces, that I less can brook Or came in anguish here to me Around thee robes of snowy white, 268 THE LEGEND OF GENEVIEVE. The auburn hair is braided soft It would be crime, a double death But let me press that hand again, It is a dream, and thou art gone; To muse on days, when thou to me Oh! lonely is the lot of him, Whose path is on the earth, And when his thoughts are dark and dim, A swallow left, when all his kind Have crossed the seas and winged the wind. |