SONG OF NOURMAHAL. OR mine is the lay that lightly floats, And they come, like genii, hovering round. And mine is the gentle song that bears With the blissful tone that's still in the ear, FROM "THE SELF-ENCHANTED." I had sense in dreams of a Beauly rare #coping. like some enchanted theme, Over the marge of that chrystal stream MUSIC. (From "Merchant of Venice," Act V., Scene 1.) [OW sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music But in his motion like an angel sings, WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. ths Lamb MARE RUBRUM. LASH out a stream of blood-red wine, But every ghost of boyhood's dream To sleep beneath this blood-red stream. And drank the splendors of the sun, Beneath these waves of crimson lie, In rosy fetters prisoned fast, And walks the chamber of the brain. Poor beauty! Time and fortune's wrong The shout of voices known so well, Here, clad in burning robes, are laid 395 Life's blossomed joys, untimely shed, We miss awhile, and call them dead. Oliver Wendell Hormes. Yet, sprinkled with this blushing rain, Their glistening lips of pink and pearl. Here lies the home of school-boy life, With creaking stair and wind-swept hall, Here rest, their keen vibrations mute, Nay! take the cup of blood-red wine; Calmed, but not chilled, by winter's snow! Rich as the priceless draught shall be That wet the bride of Cana's lip The wedding wine of Galilee! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. THE HARP THE MONARCH MIN STREL SWEPT. I. HE harp the monarch minstrel swept, The King of men, the loved of Heaven, Which Music hallow'd while she wept O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven! It soften❜d men of iron mould, It gave them virtues not their own; No ear so dull, no soul so cold, That felt not, fired not to the tone, What good are fancies rare, that rack Till David's lyre grew mightier than his Alas! they cannot bear us back throne! Unto happy years again! But the white rose without stain Bringeth times and thoughts of flowers, When youth was bounteous as the hours. BRYAN W. PROCTER. (Barry Cornwall.) II. It told the triumphs of our King, lt wafted glory to our God; It made our gladden'd valleys ring, The cedars bow, the mountains nod; Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode! Since then, though heard on earth no more, Devotion and her daughter Love Still bid the bursting spirit soar To sounds that seem as from above, In dreams that day's broad light can not re move. GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. DRINKING. (Paraphrased from "Anacreon,'') HE thirsty earth soaks up the rain, And drinks, and gapes for drink again. The plants suck in the earth, and are, With constant drinking, fresh and fair. The sea itself, which one would think Should have but little need of drink, Drinks ten thousand rivers up, So filled that they o'erflow the cup. The busy sun-and one would guess By's drunken, fiery face no lessDrinks up the sea, and when he has done, The moon and stars drink up the sun. They drink and dance by their own light, They drink and revel all the night. Nothing in Nature's sober found, But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there, so why Should every creature drink but I? Why, men of morals, tell me why? ABRAHAM COWLEY. |