On that deep-retiring shore In the griefs of Long-ago. Tombs where lonely love repines, Through the golden mist of years; Though the doom of swift decay Shocks the soul where life is strong; Though for frailer hearts the day RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. Sunken Treasures. WHEN the uneasy waves of life subside, And the soothed ocean sleeps in glassy rest, I see, submerged beyond or storm or tide, SUNKEN TREASURES. There still they shine through the translucent Past, No fierce upheaval of the deep shall cast Them back-no wave shall wash them to the shore. I see them gleaming, beautiful as when Erewhile they floated, convoys of my fate; The barks of lovely women, noble men, 239 Full-sailed with hope, and stored with Love's own freight The sunken ventures of my heart as well There sleep the early triumphs, cheaply won, There wait the recognitions, the quick ties, There lie the summer eves, delicious eves, The soft green valleys drenched with light divine, There lives the hour of fear and rapture yet, There are they all; they do not fade or waste, I see them all, but stretch my hands in vain; BAYARD TAYLOR. Oft, in the Stilly Night. OFT, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends so linked together, I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather; I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. THOMAS MOORE AMONG THE BEAUTIFUL PICTURES. Among the Beautiful Pictures. AMONG the beautiful pictures That hang on Memory's wall, Is one of a dim old forest, That seemeth best of all; Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant ledge, Where the bright red berries rest; It seemeth to me the best. I once had a little brother With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that old dim forest Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers, But his feet on the hills grew weary, I made for my little brother Sweetly his pale arms folded 241 And when the arrows of sunset That hang on Memory's wall, Seemeth the best of all. ALICE CARY. When on my Bed. HEN on my bed the moonlight falls, WE I know that in thy place of rest, By that broad water of the west, There comes a glory on the walls: 'Thy marble bright in dark appears, The mystic glory swims away; From off my bed the moonlight dies; I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray: And then I know the mist is drawn, ALFRED TENNYSON. |