Dream!-Who dreams

Of the God who governs a thousand streams? Ah, who is this Spirit fine?

'Tis Wine, boys! 'tis Wine!

God Bacchus, a friend of mine.
O, better is he

Than Grape or Tree,

And the best of all good company.

SONG.

Let us sing and sigh !

Let us sigh and sing!

Sunny haunts have no such pleasures
As the shadows bring.

Who would seek the crowd,

Who would seek the noon,

That could woo the pale maid Silence
Underneath the moon?

Smiles are things for youth,

Things for a merry rhyme :
But the voice of Pity suiteth
Any mood or time.

I LOVE HIM.

I love him, I dream of him,
I sing of him by day,

And all the night I hear him talk,—
And yet, he's far away.

There's beauty in the morning;

There's sweetness in the May;

There's music in the running stream:
And yet, he's far away.

I love him, I trust in him;
He trusteth me alway :
And so the time flies hopefully,
Although he's far away.

IGNORANCE IS BLISS.

Rains fall, suns shine, winds flee,
Brooks run; yet few know how :
Do not thou too deeply search
Why thou lovest me now!

Perhaps, by some command

Sent earthward from above,

Thy heart was doom'd to lean on mine,
Mine to enjoy thy love.

Why ask when joy doth smile,

From what bright heaven it fell ?
Men mar the beauty of their dreams,
Tracing their source too well.

SHE WAS NOT FAIR.

She was not fair, nor full of grace,

Nor crown'd with thought or aught beside, No wealth had she of mind or face, To win our love or raise our pride ; No lover's thought her cheek did touch, No poet's dream was round her thrown: And yet we miss her,-ah! too much, Now she hath flown.

We miss her when the morning calls,
As one that mingled in our mirth;
We miss her when the evening falls,—
A trifle wanted on the earth:

Some fancy small or subtle thought

Is check'd ere to its blossom grown, Some chain is broken that we wrought,Now she hath flown.

No solid good nor hope defined

Is marr'd now she hath sunk in night; And yet the strong immortal Mind

Is stopp'd in its triumphant flight. Stern friend! what power is in a tear, What strength in one poor thought alone, When all we know is-She was here And She hath flown!

THE POET TO HIS WIFE.

How many summers, Love!

Have I been thine?
How many days, thou Dove!

Hast thou been mine?
Time, like the winged wind

When it bends the flowers,
Hath left no mark behind

To count the hours.

Some weight of thought, though loath,

On thee he leaves;

Some lines of care round both

Perhaps he weaves;

Some fears, a soft regret

For joys scarce known;

Sweet looks we half forget:

All else is flown.

Ah! with what thankless heart

I mourn and sing!

Look, where our children start

Like sudden Spring!

With tongues all sweet and low,
Like a pleasant rhyme,
They tell how much I owe

To Thee and Thine.

RICHARD HENRY DANA.

1787-1879.

THE LITTLE BEACHBIRD.

Thou little bird! thou dweller by the sea!
Why takest thou its melancholy voice,
And with that boding cry

O'er the waves dost thou fly?

O rather, bird! with me

Through the fair land rejoice!

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale,
As driven by the beating storm at sea;

Thy cry is weak and scared,

As if thy mates had shared

The doom of us; thy wail

What does it bring to me?

Thou call'st along the sand and haunt'st the surge, Restless and sad, as if, in strange accord

With the motion and the roar

Of waves that drive to shore,

One spirit did ye urge,—

The Mystery-the Word.

Of thousands thou both sepulchre and pall,
Old Ocean! art. A requiem o'er the dead
From out thy gloomy cells

A tale of mourning tells :

Tells of man's woe and fall,
His sinless glory fled.

Then turn thee, little bird! and take thy flight
Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring
Thy spirit never more!

Come, quit with me the shore

For gladness and the light

Where birds of summer sing!

GEORGE GORDON BYRON (LORD BYRON). 1788-1824.

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

The Isles of Greece! the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,-
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet:
But all except their sun is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further West

66

Than your sires' Islands of the Bless'd."

The mountains look on Marathon,

And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone

I dream'd that Greece might still be free:
For standing on the Persians' grave
I could not deem myself a slave.

A King sate on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis,
And ships by thousands lay belcw,

And men in nations,—all were his ;
He counted them at break of day;
But when the sun set where were they?