II.

A happy lover in a country town,

With half a dozen unexpected hours
Thrown to him on a laughing April day :
His grandfather, 'Tell John to seal this note,
And see it posted: then be off and mind,
To-morrow morning, half-past nine: good bye.'

A ride of twenty minutes through the lanes,
And on his shoulder lies a small warm hand.

Stay, happy hours!

O rays of golden light,

And do ye tire so soon of flowers so bright?

Nor care ye for the nightingale's sweet song?
Fear not the dismal night;

Sweet hours, pass not so hurriedly along :

Can ye not stay, and dazzle with your light

The dusky queen of night

And her dark throng?

ISABEL IN DREAMLAND.

I dreamed that I walked through a fairy haunt

In a beautiful emerald bower,

Where the bright birds sing, and the waters laugh

As they flow by many a flower.

Oh! how fresh and sweet grow the fair wild flowers
Where the shimmering waters run,

And green mosses sparkle with drops of dew,
And gay pebbles flash in the sun.

The frail wild roses with soft sunny smiles

Peep out from the sweet briar trees :

The

may from the depth of her snow-white breast

Sighs her soul to the perfumed breeze.

And the hare-bell weeps, and the blue-bell shakes,

As they turn their faces away,

For the Isabel, their own virgin queen,

Is ten times as beauteous as they !

Soft she sleeps, fair flower, on a mossy bank;
And her dreams are blissful I ween,

For an angel smile creeps over her face
Like sunlight o'er landscapes at e'en.

And I catch her name from the happy birds
Who call it aloud in their song,

And sauntering breezes whisper the word

To streams as they hurry along.

When the kingly sun for three hours has marched

On this smiling morning in May,

The birds sing yet louder, the streams stand still,

For they know who was born to-day.

And they crown their own fairy queen with flowers

As they summon her from her dream,

And they bathe her brow with the sparkling dew And her feet in the joyful stream.

O bright sunny moments of passing bliss,
O joyous brief vision of light,

Why must ye away for the dreamless day
To flood the soft shadows of night?

A LAMENT.

O Christ! that Thy dear name should be
The battle-ground of hostile sects,

Of whom each in all else detects

A want of Catholicity.

So thousands fall on every side

Each day, who never heard thy name,

And hell's swift agents feed the flame That springs from Thy mock followers' pride.

To be a Christian does not mean,

In these unhappy days of strife,
To live and teach a Christ-like life,
The fruit is hid in branches green.