I could not wish that in thy bosom aught Should e'er one moment's transient pain awaken, Yet can't regret that thou—forgive the thought— As flowers when shaken Will yield their sweetest fragrance to the wind, Should, ruffled thus, betray thy heavenly mind.
A ROMAN CHARIOT RACE.
BY J. I. BAILEY.
Hast thou no soul, that thou canst be unmoved At glorious sports like these? Even now I see Come forth the noble charioteers, arrayed In red, white, green, and azure, like the sky, The eye of beauty dazzled by their hue! And now with eager hopes and proud desires Exulting, lo! the youthful, daring band Start to the race, and fiercely seize the reins! Onward they rush; a thousand voices hail The alternate victor as he speeds along; Ten thousand eyes pursue the chariot flight, And as they gaze, as many thousand souls Swell in their bosoms and almost leap out. Then comes the glorious moment when the goal Is almost reached—they goad the foremost steeds Lashing with all their might upon their flanks; The golden chariot glitters in the course, And swifter than the wind is borne along— And now the victor, like a flash of light, Bursts on the view, and hails the loud acclaim, While lengthening shouts of triumph rend the air! Waldimar, a Tragedy. Act II., Scene I.
LINES FOR MUSIC.
BY G. P. MORRIS.
O would that she were here, These hills and dales among, Where vocal groves are gayly mocked By echo's airy tongue,— Where jocund Nature smiles In all her gay attire, Amid deep-tangled wiles Of hawthorn and sweet-brier. O would that she were here, That fair and gentle thing, Whose words are musical as strains Breathed by the wind-harp's string.
O would that she were here, Where the free waters leap, Shouting in their joyousness, Adown the rocky steep,— Where rosy Zephyr lingers All the livelong day, With health upon his pinions, And gladness in his way. O would that she were here, Sure Eden's garden-plot Did not embrace more varied charms Than this romantic spot.