There's not on earth a jewel That's worth one grief-born tear. Long may the heart be silent If sorrow's touch alone, Upon the chords descending, Has power to wake its tone. I'd never be a poet, My bounding heart to hush And lay down at the altar For sorrow's foot to crush. For coming evening's hours, I fain would learn the music To waste my heartfelt mirth: EMILY C. JUDSON. TWO LOVERS. WO lovers by a moss-grown spring: They leaned soft cheeks together there, Mingled the dark and sunny hair, And heard the wooing thrushes sing. O budding time! Two wedded from the portal stept: O pure-eyed bride! What cruel answer have I heard? Go boldly forth, my simple lay, Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say; II. I WOULD NOT SHRINK. I WOULD not shrink if some dear ghost, No! If the brother loved and lost The nymph for whom these notes are Oh, if I gauge my heart aright, sung. Translation of SIR WILLIAM JONES. Dear would the dead be to my sight: A vision from the other coast Of one on earth I cherished most Would be a measureless delight; I would not shrink. CHARLES D. BELL. HE THE GOLDEN RINGLET. ERE is a little golden tress The all that's left of loveliness That once was thought so fair; And yet, though time hath dimmed its sheen, Though all beside hath fled, I hold it here, a link between Yes, from this shining ringlet stiil I think of her, the loved, the wept, For eighteen years like sunshine slept Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah, no! they have withered and died, Or fled with the spirit above; His only thought how best himself to please. Of richest wines he had an endless store: These are his pride, and oft as lovingly Friends, brothers and sisters are laid side by As they were children he will tell their age; His city house, his mansion by the sea, side, Yet none have saluted, and none have Alternately his jovial hours engage; replied. Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve; Not a sob, not a sigh, meets mine ear Which compassion itself could relieve. Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love nor fear: So great his wealth it hourly groweth more. A little luck, a little keen address, "Peace, peace!" is the watchword-the only Paying the flattery in meats and drinks; one here. Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow: Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone, Applauding friends he daily entertains, To ease him of himself. Sometimes he thinks If he were poor his friends might love him less. Gray-headed Reginald! he has royal parts Are the signs of a sceptre that none may And in all circles fills an honored seat; disown. Yet vain for him are maidens' accents sweet: The tables empty and he feels alone, Who might have soothed him with her gentle HERBERT KNOWLES. ALONE. SO Reginald is still a bachelor, Not young, yet youthful, studious of There was no way to 'scape the dart; his ease, No care could guard the lover's heart. |