A ROMAN CHARIOT RACE. BY J. I. BAILEY. HAST thou no soul, that thou canst be unmoved Waldimar, a Tragedy. Act II., Scene 1. LINES FOR MUSIC, BY G. P. MORRIS, O WOULD that she were here, These hills and dales among, Where vocal groves are gayly mocked Where jocund Nature smiles Of hawthorn and sweet-brier. That fair and gentle thing, Whose words are musical as strains Breathed by the wind-harp's string. O would that she were here, And gladness in his way. Sure Eden's garden-plot Did not embrace more varied charms Than this romantic spot. O would that she were here, O would that she were here The nymphs of this bright scene, With song, and dance, and revelry, Would crown BIANCA queen. WHITE LAKE.* BY A. B. STREET. PURE as their parent springs! how bright Curving around the eastern side, Rich meadows slope their banks, to meet Here busy life attests that toil, With its quick talisman, has made While opposite the forests lie In giant shadow, black and deep, Amid this scene of light and gloom, * Or "Lake Kau-na-ong-ga," meaning literally "two wings." White Lake, which is the unmeaning modern epithet of this beautiful sheet of water, is situated in the town of Bethel, Sullivan County, N. Y. It is in the form of a pair of huge wings expanded. Here waves the grain, here curls the smoke, The orchard bends; there, wilds, as dark As when the hermit waters woke Beneath the Indian's bark. Oft will the panther's sharp, shrill shriek The ploughman sees the wind-winged deer Dart from his covert to the wave, And fearless in its mirror clear His branching antlers lave. Here, the green headlands seem to meet So near, a fairy bridge might cross; There, spreads the broad and limpid sheet In smooth, unruffled gloss. Arched by the thicket's screening leaves, Hark! like an organ's tone, the woods Is speaking to the lake. The fanning air-breath sweeps across On its broad path of sparkles now. Bends down the violet to the moss, Then melts upon my brow. SONG OF SPRING-TIME. BY C. F. HOFFMAN. WHERE dost thou loiter, Spring, While it behoveth Where'er thou roveth, And to my lady bring The flowers she loveth. Come with thy melting skies Where founts are gushing; Lead her where by the brook Through its leaves peepeth. Lead her where on the spray, Blithely carolling, First birds their roundelay For my lady sing— But keep, where'er she stray True-love blossoming. |