Thank thou Fate, she cried, whose minions,
All the gods, love me alone;
Were I fashioned without pinions,
They would keep me for their own!
W. P. P.
[THE TRYSTING HOUR.]
BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.
I.
Beside my casement's trailing vines,
By meditation led,
I sit, when Sleep his pinion waves
Above each drooping head:
When all the shadowy forms that haunt
The bright abodes on high,
Steal softly forth, in silvery troops
From chambers of the sky.
II.
As down the midnight air they float
Upon celestial cars,
I turn me to a steady light
That gleams among the stars;
A prophet-light it is to me,
And shadows forth the hour
That calls my spirit there to meet
A seraph in its bower.