Were beaming love, as angel-like she smiled
And kissed my brow. And, as I watched her face,
I woke and wept to know ’twas but a dream.
—Geo. M. Vickers.
Six o’Clock.
Down by the rugged coast of Maine
Breaks on the air the glad refrain
That welcomes old Time on his westward flight,
That makes the dull eye of the toiler bright,
And heralds the bliss of a single night;