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I know not the words or the symphony, 'Twas all so full of harmony,

I failed to remember the air. Once Eva's gentle accents rose A little above the calm repose

Of Annie's, liquid and rare.

Tis a perilous post to sit and hear
Sounds falling so sweetly on the ear;

You half feel bound to adore
At least the voice of the one who sings,
So near, so clear, to the soul it rings,

But, alas! 'tis quickly o'er.

Ended, at last, in a burst of song,
So wild, so bold, so loud, so long,

I sprang at once to my feet,
Gazing! Ah, when shall I gaze again
On maids as fair, with as sweet a pain:

At the end of as charming a treat.


There is a soul within the song
Of the streamlet, as it flows along;
Or the nightingale in the scented wood,
As its music swells o'er field and flood.

A soul that speaks unto the soul

Of man, and speaks with firm control.

Flashes of fire to the eyes it gives,

In every pulse new spirit lives;

New life is born in every limb,

Above the earth the senses swim.

'Tis then it feels the works of God,

'Tis then the soul o'ercomes the sod.

The thoughts rise as the song flows on,

Till every worldly thought is gone.

The feelings own their glorious birth,

The soul disdains its home of earth,

And feels prepared for instant flight,

Aloft 'midst the starry, spreading night;

Still the world beneath blooms sweetly fair,

Bidding the pilgrim linger there;

Till struggles past, 'midst earthly strife,

Prepare the way for purer life.

There is a something in the morn,

Radiant when the day is born,

And nature rises from its sleep,

As slowly the long shadows creep.

Deepening and shortening, as from rest,

The sun spring roundward toward the west.

Something then bids the human mind

Seek a Maker, good and kind;

A Life, that bade all others live;

A Soul, that joyed each soul to give;

A Being, to whom to utter praise,

With hopes for health and lengthened days:

And that inheritance of peace,

Which all desire when life shall cease.

In the morning light how the lark sings hymns,

Till the glorious sun his eyesight dims.

Again in the corn he seeks his nest,

Warming the young 'neath his downy breast.

Nor alone the lark, but each creature then;

Nor alone the brutes, but their masters, Men,

With hearts of joy, with hearts of care,

Address one Being in earnest prayer,

And that song had touched my soul, till plain

These thoughts passed through a restless brain.


The evening is passing quickly by,
We are sitting, chatting merrily,

Talking of different times.
Gay are our smiles, and cheerfully
The gaslights burn, and brilliantly,

As suns of southern climes.

Stories of British heroes told,
Serve history's pages to unfold,

Relieving these with rhymes.
Until from the neighbouring church towers,
Recalling our minds to the passing hours,

Eleven rapidly chimes.

The time has passed so merrily,
So cheerfully, so happily,

We wish it were but eight.
But doubling round from side to side,
From tall church steeples far and wide,

The echoes say, "'tis late."
Of coming again to see them soon,
To-morrow, perhaps, to lunch at noon,

Till two for me they will wait.
I really know not how to refuse:
I will come, and with me a budget of news.

Who envies me not such a fate 1


Standing at the door,
Wishing us good-bye,

Moonlight on the floor,
Streaming from the sky.

Wishing us good-night,

Sleep and happy dreams; In the placid light,

Lovely, Eva seems.

Glowing are her eyes,

Flowing is her hair, Like the shining skies,

Or angels lingering there.

Hark! a soft adieu,

Like to music falls: Or the silent dew,

Upon ruined walls.

Annie bends her head,

Whispers, "Soon return!" I could see Alfred,

Mark his visage burn.

I could hear a sigh,

Rising from her breast; See a hand so nigh,

Very softly pressed.

I could mark a kiss,

On her lily hand. For a night like this,

Love must all command.

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