And softly through the forest bars
    Light, lovely shapes, on glossy plumes,
  Float ever in, like winged stars,
    Amid the purpling glooms. 
  Their sweet songs, borne from tree to tree,
  Thrill the light leaves with melody.

  Alas! too deep a weight of thought
    Had filled thy heart in youth’s sweet hour;
  It seemed with love and bliss o’erfraught;
    As fleeting passion-flower
  Unfolding ’neath a southern sky,
  To blossom soon, and soon to die.

  Alas! the very path I trace,
    In happier hours thy footsteps made;
  This spot was once thy resting place,
    Within the silent shade. 
  Thy white hand trained the fragrant bough
  That drops its blossoms o’er me now.

* * * * *

  Yet in those calm and blooming bowers
    I seem to feel thy presence still,
  Thy breath seems floating o’er the flowers,
    Thy whisper on the hill;
  The clear, faint starlight, and the sea,
  Are whispering to my heart of thee.

  No more thy smiles my heart rejoice,
    Yet still I start to meet thy eye,
  And call upon the low, sweet voice,
    That gives me no reply—­
  And list within my silent door
  For the light feet that come no more.

* * * * *

=_Rebecca S. Nichols,_= about =_1820-._= (Manual, pp. 503, 524.)

From “Musings.”

=_403._=

  How like a conquerer the king of day
    Folds back the curtains of his orient couch,
  Bestrides the fleecy clouds, and speeds his way
    Through skies made brighter by his burning touch;
  For, as a warrior from the tented field
    Victorious, hastes his wearied limbs to rest,
  So doth the sun his brazen sceptre yield,
    And sink, fair Night, upon thy gentle breast.

* * * * *

  Fair Vesper, when thy golden tresses gleam
    Amid the banners of the sunset sky,
  Thy spirit floats on every radiant beam
    That gilds with beauty thy sweet home on high;
  Then hath my soul its hour of deepest bliss,
    And gentle thoughts like angels round me throng,
  Breathing of worlds (O, how unlike to this!)
    Where dwell eternal melody and song.

* * * * *

=_Alice Cary._=

“The Old House.”

=_404._= ATTRACTIONS OF OUR EARLY HOME.

  My little birds, with backs as brown
    As sand, and throats as white as frost,
  I’ve searched the summer up and down,
    And think the other birds have lost
  The tunes, you sang so sweet, so low,
  About the old house, long ago.

  My little flowers, that with your bloom
    So hid the grass you grew upon,
  A child’s foot scarce had any room
    Between you,—­are you dead and gone? 
  I’ve searched through fields and gardens rare,
  Nor found your likeness any where.