« PreviousContinue »
TO THE CRICKET.
BY THE REVEREND THOMAS COLE.
SPRIGHTLY Cricket, chirking still
kitchen take thy' rest
Thou, a harmless inmate deem'd,
As her sunny
TO THE CRICKET.
For a summer month or two
Every day and every night
BY MISS LANDON.
Are other eyes beguiling, Love?
Are other white arms wreathing, Love? Are other fond sighs breathing, Love? Ah, heed them not; but call to mind The arms, the sighs, you leave behindAll thine, Love.
Then gaze not on other eyes, Love;
All thine own, 'mid gladness, Love;
I've pleasant thoughts, that memory brings, in
moments free from care, Of a fairy-like and laughing girl, with roses in her
hair; Her smile was like the starlight of summer's softest
skies, And worlds of joyousness there shone from out her
Her looks were looks of melody, her voice was like
the swell Of sudden music, gentle notes, that of deep gladness
She came like spring, with pleasant sounds of
sweetness and of mirth, : And her thoughts were those wild, flowery thoughts,
that linger not on earth.
100 A quiet goodness beam'd amid the beauty of her face, And all she said and did was with its own instinctive
grace ; She seem'd as if she thought the world a good and
pleasant one, And her light spirit saw no ill, in aught beneath the
I've dream'd of just such creatures, but they never
met my view 'Mid the sober, dull reality, in their earthly form and
hue, And her smile came gently over me, like spring's
first scented airs, And made me think life was not all a wilderness of
I know not of her destiny, or where her smile now
strays, But the thought of her comes o'er me, with my own
lost sunny days, With moonlight hours, and far off friends, and many
pleasant things That have gone the way of all the earth, on Time's
THE UNKNOWN GRAVE.
BY D. M. MOIR.
Man comes into the world like morning mushrooms, soon thrusting up their heads into the air, and conversing with their kindred of the same production, and as soon they turn into dust and forgetfulness.- JEREMY TAYLOR.
Who sleeps below ?—who sleeps below ?
It is a question idle all !
Say, do they heed, or hear thy call ?
A hundred summer suns have shower'd
Their fostering warmth, and radiance bright; A hundred winter storms have lour'd
With piercing floods, and hues of night,
Was he of high or low degree?
Did grandeur smile upon his lot?
Dwelt he within some lonely cot,
Say, died he ripe, and full of years,
Bow'd down and bent by hoary eld, When sound was silence to his ears,
And the dim eyeball sight withheld;