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AN HOUR OF ROMANCE.
THERE were thick leaves above me and around,
* The Talisman-Tales of the Crusaders.
A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers,
But ere long, All sense of these things faded, as the spell, Breathing from that high gorgeous tale, grew strong On my chain’d soul—'twas not the leaves I heard ; -A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirr’d, Through its proud foating folds—’twas not the brook, Singing in secret through its grassy glenA wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen Peal'd from the desert's lonely heart, and shook The burning air.—Like clouds when winds are high, O’er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby, And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear Flash'd where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear, Shadow'd by graceful palm-trees.—Then the shout Of merry England's joy swellid freely out, Sent through an Eastern heaven, whose glorious hue Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue ;
And harps were there—I heard their sounding strings, As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings.
The bright masque faded—unto life's worn track
-A voice of happy childhood !—and they pass'd,
EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL.
“ Now in thy youth, beseech of Him,
Who giveth, upbraiding not,
And his love be unforgot ;
Hush ! '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 clust'ring 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 thoughtGaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought ?
EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL. 147
- Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity!
Oh! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest,
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppress'd,
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sunLift up your hearts !-though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes ;
Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread;
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Her lot is on you—silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from Affection's deep,
To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower!