In those wild hours when feeling chafed its bound,
And deepened more that utterance was denied,
In thee persuasive messengers I found
That reached the haven of love's wayward tide.
And I have borne thee to the couch of death
When naught remained to do but wait and pray,
And marked the sudden flush and quickened breath
That proved thee dear though all had passed away!
THEY MAY TELL OF A CLIME.
TO —— ——.
BY CHARLES E. TRAIL.
They may tell of a clime more delightful than this,
The land of the orange, the myrtle and vine;
Where the roses blush red beneath Zephyr's warm kiss,
And the bright beams of summer unceasingly shine.
But I know a sweet valley, a beautiful spot,
Where the turf is so green, and the breezes are bland;
And methinks, if you'll share there my ivy-crowned cot,
There'll be no place on earth like my own native land.
A palace 'neath Italy's star-covered sky,
Unblest by thy presence would desolate be;
But cheered by the light of thy soft beaming eye,
Ah! sweet were a tent in the desert with thee.
For 'tis love—O! 'tis love which thus hallows the ground,
And brightens the gloom of the anchorite's cell;
And the Eden of earth—wheresoe'er it be found—
Is the spot where the heart's cherished idol doth dwell.