The birds sang in the branches, But the voices of the children Will be heard in dreams alone! And the boy that walk'd beside me, Why closer in mine, ah! closer, I press'd his warm, soft hand! H. W. Longfellow. EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL. USH! 'tis a holy hour-the quiet room Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance through the gloom, And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads, With all their clustering locks, untouch'd by care, And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in prayer. Gaze on 'tis lovely-childhood's lip and cheek Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought: Gaze, yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity. Oh! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs Of hope make melody where'er ye tread; And o'er your sleep bright shadows from the wings Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman's tenderness, how soon her woe! Her lot is on you, silent tears to weep, To pour on broken weeds, a wasted shower! . And to make idols, and to find them clay, Her lot is on you, to be found untired, And take the thought of this calm vesper time, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, On through the dark days fading from their prime, As a street dew to keep your souls from blight. Earth will forsake, oh! happy to have given The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto heaven! Felicia Hemans. HEN all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, |