TO LUCY.

I'm thinking of the pleasant hours
That vanished long ago,
When summer was the goldenest,
And all things caught its glow:
I'm thinking where the violets
In fragrant beauty lay,
Of the buttercups and primroses
That blossomed in our way.

I see the willow, and the spring
O'ergrown with purple sedge;
The lilies and the scarlet pinks
That grew along the hedge;
The meadow, where the elm-tree threw
Its shadows dark and wide,
And, sister, flowers in beauty grew,
And perish'd side by side:
O'er the accustomed vale and hill
Now Winter's robe is spread,
The beetle and the moth are still,
And all the flowers are dead.

I mourn for thee, sweet sister,
When the wintry hours are here ;

But when the days grow long and bright,
And skies are blue and clear-
Oh! when the Summer's banquet
Among the flowers is spread,
My spirit is most sorrowful

That thou art with the dead.
We laid thee in thy narrow bed,

When autumn winds were highThy life had taught us how to live, And then we learned to die.

Alice Carey.

THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT.

AN Indian girl was sitting where

Her lover, slain in battle, slept; Her maiden veil, her own black hair,

Came down o'er her eyes that wept; And wildly, in her woodland tongue, This sad and simple lay she sung :—

"I've pull'd away the shrubs that grew Too close above thy sleeping head, And broke the forest boughs that threw Their shadows o'er thy bed,

That, shining from the sweet south-west, The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest.

"It was a weary, weary road

That led thee to the pleasant coast,
Where thou, in his serene abode,
Hast met thy father's ghost;

Where everlasting autumn lies
On yellow woods and sunny skies.

""T was I the broider'd moc'sin made,

That shod thee for that distant land;

"T was I thy bow and arrow laid
Beside thy still, cold hand—
Thy bow in many a battle bent,
Thy arrows never vainly sent.

THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT.

"With wampum belts I cross'd thy breast,
And wrapp'd thee in thy bison's hide,
And laid the food that pleased thee best
In plenty by thy side,

And deck'd thee bravely, as became
A warrior of illustrious name.

"Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast pass'd The long dark journey of the grave,

And in the land of light, at last,

Hast joined the good and braveAmid the flush'd and balmy air,

The bravest and the loveliest there.

"Yet oft thine own dear Indian maid,

Even there, thy thoughts will earthward stray

To her who sits where thou wert laid,

And weeps the hours away,

Yet almost can her grief forget

To think that thou dost love her yet.

"And thou, by one of those still lakes,
That in a shining cluster lie,

On which the south wind scarcely breaks
The image of the sky,

A bower for thee and me hast made
Beneath the many-colour'd shade.

"And thou dost wait to watch and meet
My spirit sent to join the blest,
And, wondering what detains my feet
From the bright land of rest,
Dost seem, in every sound, to hear
The rustling of my footsteps near."

W. C. Bryant.

LOVE THOUGHTS.

BECAUSE, from all that round thee move, Planets of Beauty, Strength and Grace,

I am elected to thy love,

And have my home in thy embrace;
I wonder all men do not see

The crown that thou hast set on me!

Because, when prostrate at thy feet,
Thou didst emparadise my pain;
Because thy heart on mine has beat,
Thy head within my hands has lain,
I am transfigured by that sign,
Into a being like to thine.

The mirror from its glossy plain
Receiving still returns the light;
And being generous of its gain,
Augments the very solar might.
What unreflected light would be,
Is just thy spirit without me.

Thou art the flame whose rising spire
In the dark air sublimely sways;
And I, the tempest that swift fire
Gathers at first and then obeys;
All that was thine ere we were wed
Have I by right inherited.

ORIANA.

Is life a stream? Then, from thy hair
One rosebud on the current fell;

And straight it turned to crystal there,
As adamant immovable :

Its steadfast place shall know no more
The sense of after and before.

Is life a plant? The king of years,
To mine nor good nor ill can bring,-
Mine grows no more, no more it fears
Even the brushing of his wing;
With sheathed scythe I see him go,
I have no flowers that he can mow.

ORIANA.

R. Monckton Milnes.

My heart is wasted with my woe,

Oriana;

There is no rest for me below,

Oriana.

When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow,

And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow,

Oriana,

Alone I wander to and fro,

Oriana.

Ere the light on dark was growing,

Oriana,

At midnight the cock was crowing,

Oriana: