BY THEODORE S. FAY.
Over forest and meadow the night breeze is stealing, The blush of the sunset is glowing no more— And the stream which we love, harmless fires revealing, With ripples of silver is kissing the shore. I have watched from the beach which your presence enchanted, In the star-lighted heaven each beautiful gem, And I sighed as I thought, ere the break of the morning, From the gaze of my eyes you must vanish like them. Then stay where the night breeze o'er flowers is stealing, And raise your young voices in music once more; Let them blend with the stream, its soft murmurs revealing In the ripples of silver which roll to the shore.
But when summer has fled, and yon flowers have faded, And the fields and the forests are withered and sere— When the friends now together, by distance are parted, Leaving nothing but winter and loneliness here; Will you think of the hour, when in friendship united, I lingered at evening to bid you adieu; When I paused by the stream, with the stars so delighted, And wished I might linger for ever with you? Oh, forget not the time when that night breeze was stealing, Though desolate oceans between us may roar, The beach—and the stars—and the waters revealing Thoughts bright as the ripples which break on the shore.
STANZAS.
BY JOHN INMAN.
L'amour ne suffit pas au bonheur; les richesses y font aussi beaucoup de cas, et parfois sans les richesses, l'amour ne produit que la misère. C'est grand dommage, mais c'est vrai. —Madame de Beaumarchais.
Alas! alas, that poverty's cold hand Should come to wither young affection's flowers— Marring the fairy pictures hope has planned Of love and joy in future happy hours— Alas, that all the blessings fancy showers O'er the young heart, should turn to grief and tears, Poisoning the cup of life through all our after-years!
A moment's pleasure and an age of pain— One hour of sunshine, and the rest all gloom— And this, oh Love, is what from thee we gain— Of all who bow before thee, this the doom— And in thy footsteps, like the dread Zamoom, Pale sorrow comes, a longer-dwelling guest, To curse the wasted heart that once by thee was blest.