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THE PARTING —A PICTURE.

BY G. MELLEN.

He loved her to the last. And when they parted
He spake not of farewell—but bent his brow
Into her hand, that lay among his hair,
Which gathered o'er its whiteness — dark, and damp,
And scattered like the locks of one whose dreams
Have, made his pillow like Procrustes' bed,
And his night sleepless. And her Parian hand,
Veined like the marble that it rivaled, shook
Over his forehead, as the hand of one
Whose spirit is o'ermastered by her tears —
And tells you of her sobbings—while her face
Is bowed and veiled before you. She had turned
Away. She could not gaze nor look on him.
Her fancies were too fearful. She believed
Their parting was for ever—and her heart
Wept like her eyes! She had heard whispers come
Often, at midnight when the storm was loud,
That told of distant seas—and whirlpools there —
Which he too soon must buffet. Yet her lips
Had scarce done with repeating of the vow

21fi THE PARTING — A PICTURE.

She made him at the altar—and his voice
Low, but with music she could ne'er forget,
Like clarion rung in her rememb'ring ear.

But they must part. His call was to a land
Where his white brow might blacken with the shade
Of rank disease—and hot and withering airs
Devour the beauty of his manliness,
And shrink those hands to talons, that now lay
Like sculpture on her own. He must go forth
Where men were like the wolves that swept the land,
And blood was poured for pastime. He must go
Where love must be forgotten—and the heart

Sink inward — silent, dungeoned, and forlorn.

* « # # * * #

Again he bent above her, but spake not.

She raised her lips and eye.—She was alone.

TO A WAVE.

BY J. O. ROCKWELL,

List! thou child of wind and sea,

Tell me of the far off deep, Where the tempest's wing is free,

And the waters never sleep. Thou perchance the storm hath aided,

In its works of stern despair, Or perchance thy hand hath braided,

In deep caves, the mermaid's hair.

Wave! now on the golden sands,

Silent as thou art, and broken, Bearest thou not from distant strands

To my heart some pleasant token? Tales of mountains of the south,

Spangles of the ore of silver, Which with playful singing mouth,

Thou hast leaped on high to pilfer?

218 TO A WAVE.

Mournful Wave! I deemed thy song

Was telling of a floating prison,
Which when tempests swept along,

And the mighty winds were risen,
Foundered in the ocean's grasp,

While the brave and fair were dying.
Wave! didst mark a white hand clasp

In thy folds as thou wert flying?

Hast thou seen the hallowed rock,

Where the pride of kings reposes,
Crowned with many a misty lock,

Wreathed with samphire green and roses!
Or with joyous playful leap

Hast thou been a tribute flinging
Up that bold and jutting steep,

Pearls upon the south wind stringing?

Faded Wave! a joy to thee

Now thy flight and toil are over!
Oh! may my departure be

Calm as thine, thou ocean rover'.
When this soul's last joy or mirth

On the shore of time is driven,
Be its lot like thine on earth,

To be lost away in heaven.

A PLEDGE TO THE DYING YEAR.

Fill to the brim! one pledge to the past,

As it sinks on its shadowy bier;
Fill to the brim! 'tis the saddest and last

We pour to the grave of the year!
Wake, the light phantoms of beauty that won us

To linger awhile in those bowers;
And flash the bright day-beams of promise upon us,

That gilded life's earlier hours.

Here's to the love—though it flitted away,

We can never, no, never forget!
Through the gathering darkness of many a day,

One pledge will we pour to it yet.
Oh, frail as the vision, that witching and tender,

And bright on the wanderer broke,
When Irem's own beauty in shadowless splendour,

Along the wild desert awoke.

Fill to the brim! one pledge to the glow
Of the heart in its purity warm!

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