A sudden thrill passed through my heart,
Wild and intense—yet not of pain—
I strove to quell quick, bounding throbs,
And scanned the sentence o'er again.
It might have been full idly penned
By one whose thoughts from love were free,
And yet as if entranced I read
"Thou art most beautiful to me."
Thou didst not whisper I was loved—
There were no gleams of tenderness,
Save those my trembling heart would hope
That careless sentence might express.
But while the blinding tears fell fast,
Until the words I scarce could see,
There shone, as through a wreathing mist,
"Thou art most beautiful to me."
To thee! I cared not for all eyes
So I was beautiful in thine!
A timid star, my faint, sad beams
Upon thy path alone should shine.
Oh what was praise, save from thy lips—
And love should all unheeded be
So I could hear thy blessed voice
Say—"Thou art beautiful to me."
And I have heard those very words—
Blushing beneath thine earnest gaze—
Though thou, perchance, hadst quite forgot
They had been said in by-gone days.
While claspèd hand, and circling arm,
Drew me nearer still to thee—
Thy low voice breathed upon mine ear
"Thou, love, art beautiful to me."
And, dearest, though thine eyes alone
May see in me a single grace—
I care not so thou e'er canst find
A hidden sweetness in my face.
And if, as years and cares steal on,
Even that lingering light must flee,
What matter! if from thee I hear
"Thou art still beautiful to me!"
[SONNET TO NIGHT.]
Oh! look, my love, as over seas and lands
Comes shadowy Night, with dew, and peace, and rest;
How every flower clasps its folded hands
And fondly leans apon her faithful breast.
How still, how calm, is all around us now,
From the high stars to these pale buds beneath—
Calm, as the quiet on an infant's brow
Rocked to deep slumber in the lap of death.
Oh! hush—move not—it is a holy hour
And this soft nurse of nature, bending low,
Lists, like the sinless pair in Eden's bower,
For angels' pinions waving to and fro—
Oh, sacred Night! what mysteries are thine
Graven in stars upon thy page divine. gretta.
[PAULINE DUMESNIL.]
OR A MARRIAGE DE CONVENANCE.
BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill
A perfect woman, nobly planned. Wordsworth.
In a large but somewhat scantily furnished apartment sat two young girls, in such earnest and apparently serious conversation that, but for their youthful and blooming countenances, one might have fancied them bending beneath the cares and sorrows of age. On the dark old table between them rested a magnificent work-box, whose rich implements they had been busily and skillfully using; but now the scissors and thread lay at their feet, their needles were dropped, and the younger of the two sat with clasped hands, while her companion's low tones appeared to awaken every emotion of her heart.