ON A LADY SINGING. TO CONSTANTIA-SINGING. THUs to be lost, and thus to sink and die, Perchance were death indeed!-Constantia, turn! In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn Between thy lips, are laid to sleep; Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odor it is yet, And from thy touch like fire doth leap. Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget! A breathless awe, like the swift change, bers. The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven By the enchantment of thy strain ; Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, Till the world's shadowy walls are past and disappear. Her voice is hovering o'er my soul-it lingers, O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings; The blood and life within those snowy fingers Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. My brain is wild, my breath comes quick- As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, I am dissolved in these consuming ecstacies. I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee; Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy song Flows on, and fills all things with melody. Now is thy voice a tempest, swift and strong, On which, like one in trance upborne, Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep, Rejoicing like a cloud of morn. Now 't is the breath of summer night, Which, when the starry waters sleep, 613 When my sense returned, as the song was o'er, I fain would have said to her, "Sing it once more; But soon as she smiled my wish I forbore: Music enough in her look I found, WOMAN'S VOICE. "Her voice was ever low, Gentle and soft-an excellent thing in woman." KING LEAE. And the hush of her lip seemed sweet as the Nor in the swaying of the summer trees, sound. THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. A CANADIAN BOAT SONG. Et remigem cantus hortatur. QUINTILIAN. FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime, When evening breezes sing their vesper hymn Not in the minstrel's mighty symphonies, But even as the swallow's silken wings, Skimming the water of the sleeping lake, Stir the still silver with a hundred rings— So doth one sound the sleeping spirit wake To brave the danger, and to bear the harm The rapids are near, and the daylight's past! A low and gentle voice-dear woman's chief Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl! Utawa's tide! this trembling moon EGYPTIAN SERENADE. SING again the song you sung When we were together young— When there were but you and I Underneath the summer sky. Sing the song, and o'er and o'er, GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. est charm. An excellent thing it is! and ever lent To truth and love, and meekness; they who own This gift, by the all-gracious Giver sent, Ever by quiet step and smile are known; By kind eyes that have wept, hearts that have sorrowed By patience never tired, from their own trials borrowed. An excellent thing it is-when first in glad ness A mother looks into her infant's eyes— Smiles to its smiles, and saddens to its sad ness Pales at its paleness, sorrows at its cries; Its food and sleep, and smiles and little joysAll these come ever blent with one low gentle voice. An excellent thing it is when life is leavingLeaving with gloom and gladness, joys and cares The strong heart failing, and the high soul grieving With strangest thoughts, and wild unwont fears; STILL to be neat, still to be drest, Give me a look, give me a face, DELIGHT IN DISORDER. A SWEET disorder in the dress An erring lace, which here and there Do more bewitch me than when art ROBERT HERRICK. THE QUEEN OF THE MAY. 615 HERE'S a bank with rich cowslips and cuckoobuds strewn, To exalt your bright looks, gentle Queen of the May! Here's a cushion of moss for your delicate shoon, And a woodbine to weave you a canopy gay. Here's a garland of red maiden-roses for you Such a delicate wreath is for beauty alone; Here's a golden king-cup, brimming over with dew, To be kissed by a lip just as sweet as its HEBE. I SAW the twinkle of white feet, As, in bare fields, the searching bees Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, It led me on-by sweet degrees, Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding. Those graces were that seemed grim fates; I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp The Earth has drunk the vintage up; Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's? O spendthrift haste! await the gods; Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, And shuns the hands would seize upon her; Follow thy life, and she will sue To pour for thee the cup of honor. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. SONNET. 'Tis much immortal beauty to admire, The wind may be enamored of a flower, er, Love and delight shall with delight devour! LORD THUELOW. TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY. MERRY Margaret, As midsummer flower- Or hawk of the tower; Or hawk of the tower; Well made, well wrought; Ere you can find So courteous, so kind, Or hawk of the tower. JOHN SKELTON |