AREWELL! but whenever you welcome the hour, That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcome it too- Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain- Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Good-By, Proud World. GOOD.BY, proud world! I'm going home. Thou are not my friend; I am not thine; Too long I am tossed like the driven foam; Good by to flattery's fawning face; To crowded halls, to court and street, I go to seek my own hearth-stone, A secret lodge in a pleasant land, And evil men have never trod, A spot that is sacred to thought and God. O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, I' If Thou Were by My Side. thou wert by my side, my love, How fast would evening fall In green Bengala's palmy grove, Listening the nightingale! If thou, my love, wert by my side, How gayly would our pinnace glide I miss thee at the dawning gray; I miss thee when, by Gunga's stream, But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I spread my books, my pencil try, But miss thy kind, approving eye, But when of morn and eve the star I feel, though thou art distant far, Then on! then on! where duty leads, That course nor Delhi's kingly gates For sweet the bliss us both awaits Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, But ne'er were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee! The Farewell. [The Farewell of a Virginia slave mother to her daughters sold into southern bondage.] ONE, gone,-sold and gone, lone, Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings, Where the noisome insect stings, Where the fever demon strews Poison with the falling dews, Gone, gone,-sold and gone, To the rice swamp dank and lone, There no mother's eye is near them, There no mother's ear can hear them; Never, when the torturing lash Seams their backs with many a gash, Shall a mother's kindness bless them, Or a mother's arms caress them. Gone, gone,-sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters;— Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone,- sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, Gone, gone-sold and gone, Gone, gone,-sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From the tree whose shadow lay On their childhood's place of play,— From the cool spring where they drank,— Rock, and hill and rivulet bank,— Gone, gone,-sold and gone, Gone, gone,-sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, Gone, gone,-sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, All their cruel wrongs are known -John Greenleaf Whittier. The mother, sending forth her child To meet with cares and strife, Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears No cold "adieu," no "farewell" lives But the deepest sob of anguish gives, Go, watch the pale and dying one, When the glance has lost its beam, The look of the closing eye, Yield what the heart must understand, -Anonymous. “O, eyes long laid in happy sleep!” "O, happy sleep that lightly fled!" "O, happy kiss that woke thy sleep!" "O, love, thy kiss would wake the dead!" And o'er them many a flowering range Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark; And, rapt through many a rosy change, The twilight died into the dark. "A hundred summers! can it be? And whither goest thou, tell me where?" "O seek my father's court with me, For there are greater wonders there." And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Through all the world she followed him. -Alfred Tennyson. I KNOW the dream is over I know you can not be In all the time to come the same That you have been to me; The color still is in the cheek The lustre in the eye,— But ah! we two have parted hands— Not that I love you less, For oh! my heart is sore, Not that the lips that breathe your name But the unresting feet of time Divided. I think I just stood still For I had found my all But your rich life swept ever on And now, although the voice rings sweet, I know no part of all their wealth What bridge can sad Love build Across this gulf of Change, Who needs must work with broken hopes And fancies new and strange? Alas, it is to late,— The light fades down the sky, The hands slip slowly each from eachGood-bye! Parting Lovers. [Sienna, 1860.] -Barton Grey. The short sigh rippling on the deep, When hearts run out of breath and sight When others named thee,-thought thy brows I left such things to bolder girls, |