The summer's sun is bright, Sall, But clouds will sometimes sadden them, But sure they will not stay; In sickness and in sorrow Thine eyes were on me still, And there was comfort in each glance To charm the sense of ill. And were they absent now, Sall, I'd seek my bed of pain, And bless each pang that gave me back Those looks of love again. Oh, pleasant is the welcome kiss, THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC. BY WASHINGTON IRVING. In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green, Where nature had fashioned a soft, sylvan scene, The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer, Passaic in silence rolled gentle and clear. No grandeur of prospect astonished the sight, And pure was the current the green bank that laved. But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood, All flush'd from the tumult of battle he came, With a glance of disgust he the landscape surveyed, With its fragrant wild flowers, its wide-waving shade ;Where Passaic meanders through margins of green, So transparent its waters, its surface serene. He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low; Countless moons have since rolled in the long lapse of time Cultivation has softened those features sublime; But the stranger still gazes with wondering eye, THE FADED ONE. BY WILLIS G. CLARK. GONE to the slumber which may know no waking A bond of loneliness-a spell of death! Yet 'twas but yesterday that all before thee Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours; Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee, And thy light feet impressed but vernal flowers. The restless spirit charmed thy sweet existence, Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze, While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance, And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days. How have the garlands of thy childhood withered, Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust. WHEN ON THY BOSOM I RECLINE. BY LINDLEY MURRAY. WHEN on thy bosom I recline, I glory in the sacred ties, Which modern wits and fools despise, One mutual flame inspires our bliss; Even years have not destroyed; Some sweet sensation, ever new, Springs up and proves the maxim true, That love can ne'er be cloyed. Have I a wish ?-'tis all for thee; That angels look with ardent gaze, If cares arise-and cares will come- And is there aught disturbs my fair? Have I a wish ?-'tis all her own; All hers and mine are rolled in one Our hearts are so entwined, That, like the ivy round the tree, 'Tis death to be disjoined. |