190 TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND. And, singling out each blessed even While shines the one beloved by thee. Lost one! companion of the blest We passed on earth such hours of bliss As none but kindred hearts can know, But dreamed of that to which we go, I'm thinking of some sunny hours, When o'er thy locks of paly gold Flowed thy transparent veil away, Till 'neath each snow-white trembling fold TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND. And sheltered 'neath its dark-fringed lid From the fond glances bent on thee. There are some hours that pass so soon, 191 Our spell-touched hearts scarce know they end; And so it was with that sweet June, Ere thou wert lost, my gentle friend! Oh! how I'll watch each flower that closes Through autumn's soft and breezy reign, Till summer-blooms restore the roses, And merry June shall come again! But, ah! while float its sunny hours O'er fragrant shore and trembling sea, Missing thy face among the flowers, How my full heart will mourn for thee! CHRISTMAS. BY WILLIAM CROSWELL. "The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee, the fir tree, the pine tree and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary; and I will make the place of my feet glorious."-ISAIAH. THE thickly woven boughs they wreathe A soft reviving odour breathe Of summer's gentle reign; And rich the ray of mild green light Comes struggling through the latticed height, Oh let the streams of solemn thought, Which in those temples rise, From deeper sources spring than aught Dependant on the skies. Then though the summer's glow departs, And winter's withering chill Rests on the cheerless woods, our hearts Shall be unchanging still. THE DEPARTED. BY PARK BENJAMIN. THE departed! the departed! They visit us in dreams, And they glide above our memories, But where the cheerful lights of home The good, the brave, the beautiful! In the cities of the dead! U 194 THE DEPARTED. I look around and feel the awe Of one who walks alone Among the wrecks of former days, I start to hear the stirring sounds For the voice of the departed That solemn voice! it mingles with The thrilling notes of birds, Can never be so dear to me, As their remembered words. I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles I know that they are happy, To think that they are gone. |