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A LOVE LETTER.

About the lonely casement of this room,

Which you have left familiar with the grace

117

That grows where you have been. And on the gloom I almost fancy I can see your face.

Perchance I shall not ever see again

That face. I know that I shall never see
Its radient beauty as I saw it then,—
Save by this lonely lamp of memory—

With childhood's starry graces lingering yet
In the rosy orient of young womanhood;
And eyes like woodland violets newly wet;
And lips that left their meaning in my blood!

Man cannot make, but may ennoble, fate,

By nobly bearing it. So let us trust
Not to ourselves, but God, and calmly wait

Love's orient out of darkness and of dust.

Farewell, and yet again farewell, and yet
Never farewell-if farewell means to fare

Alone and disunited. Love hath set

Our days in music, to the self-same air;

And I shall feel, wherever we may be,

Even though in absence, and an alien clime, The shadow of the sunniness of thee,

Hovering, in patience, through a clouded time.

Farewell! the dawn is rising, and the light
Is making, in the east, a faint endeavor
To illuminate the mountain peaks. Good-night,
Thine own, and only thine, my love, forever,
OWEN MEREDITH.

Sonnet.

́HENE'ER I recollect the happy time

WH

When you and I held converse, dear, together, There come a thousand thoughts of sunny weather, Of early blossoms and the fresh year's prime : Your memory lives forever in my mind With all the fragrant beauties of the Spring, With odorous lime and silver hawthorn twined, And many a noon-day woodland wandering. There's not a thought of you but brings along Some sunny dream of river, field, and sky; 'Tis wafted on the blackbird's sunset song, Or some wild snatch of ancient melody. And as I date it still, our love arose 'Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBle.

Lines Written in an Album.

S o'er the cold sepulchral stone

AS

Some name arrests the passer-by,
So, when thou view'st this page alone,
Let mine attract thy pensive eye;
And when by thee that name is read,
Perchance, in some succeeding year,
Reflect on me as on the dead,

And think my heart is buried here.

LORD BYRON.

LANGLEY LANE.

119

Langley Lane.

N all the land, range up, range down,

IN

Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet
As Langley Lane in London town,

Just out of the bustle of square and street?
Little white cottages all in a row,
Gardens where bachelors'-buttons grow,
Swallows' nests in roof and wall,
And up above, the still blue sky
Where the woolly white clouds go sailing by,-
I seem to be able to see it all.

For now,

in summer, I take my chair,

And sit outside in the sun, and hear
The distant murmur of street and square,

And the swallows and sparrows chirping near;
And Fanny, who lives just over the way,
Comes running many a time each day

With her little hand's touch so warm and kind;
And I smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek,
And the little live hand seems to stir and speak ;—
For Fanny is dumb and I am blind.

Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she

Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear,

And I am older by summers three,

Why should we hold each other so dear?

Because she cannot utter a word,

Nor hear the music of bee or bird,

The water-cart's splash or the milkman's call !

Because I have never seen the sky,

Nor the little singers that hum and fly,—

Yet know she is gazing upon them all!

For the sun is shining, the swallows fly,
The bees and the blue-flies murmur low,
And I hear the water-cart go by,

With its cool splash! splash! down the dusty row;
And the little one close at my side perceives
Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves,

Where birds are chirping in summer shine; And I hear, though I cannot look, and she, Though she cannot hear, can the singers see,— And the little soft fingers flutter in mine.

Hath not the dear little hand a tongue,
When it stirs on my palm for the love of me?
Do I not know she is pretty and young?
Hath not my soul an eye to see?

'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir,
To wonder how things appear to her,

That I only hear as they pass around;
And as long as we sit in the music and light,
She is happy to keep God's sight,

And I am happy to keep God's sound.

--

Why, I know her face, though I am blind,--
I made it of music long ago:

Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined

Round the pensive light of a brow of snow; And when I sit by my little one,

And hold her hand and talk in the sun,

And hear the music that haunts the place,

I know she is raising her eyes to me,
And guessing how gentle my voice must be,
And seeing the music upon my face.

Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer, (I know the fancy is only vain),

I should pray, just once, when the weather is fair,
To see little Fanny in Langley Lane;

A SONG OF THE CAMP.

Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear
The voice of the friend she holds so dear,

The song of the birds, the hum of the street,-
It is better to be as we have been-

Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen,
To make God's heaven more strange and sweet.

Ah! life is pleasant in Langley Lane!

There is always something sweet to hearChirping of birds or patter of rain,

And Fanny, my little one, always near. And though I am weakly and can't live long, And Fanny my darling is far from strong,

And though we never can married be,— What then?-since we hold each other so dear, For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear, And the pleasure that only one can see?

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

121

A Song of the Camp.

IVE us a song!" the soldiers cried,

"GIVE

The outer trenches guarding,

When the heated guns of the camp allied

Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
Lay grim and threatening under ;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said:

"We storm the forts to-morrow;

Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow."

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