A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES. 53 "And when, in seasons after, Thy young bright-faced son Shall lean against thy knee, and ask View deep his pretty childish eyes— The river floweth on. She looked up in wonder, Yet softly answered she "By loves that last when lights are past, But why glads it thee, that a bride-day be That a word of wrong take the cradle song "Why!" Luti said, and her laugh was dread,— Her laugh was low and wild "That the fair new love may the bridegroom prove, And the father shame the child!" The river floweth on. "Thou flowest still, O river! Thou flowest 'neath the moon Thy lily hath not changed a leaf, He mixed his voice with thine-and his Was all I heard around! But now, beside his chosen bride, I hear the river's sound!" The river floweth on. Come back! she hath departed- O symbols! none are frail enow While bright doth float Nuleeni's boat, She weepeth, dark with sorrow! The river floweth on. E. B. BARRETT. HOPE. HOPE! ready promiser, unsure performer, That come and vanish with the dews of morn; That turns out oft, on waking, blank despair; MY GRAVE. Why do I trust thy visions and dream on, 55 Yet art thou blest so far-The naked wretch With solace by thee, and the load, that else S. KNOWLES. MY GRAVE. SHALL they bury me in the deep, Under the green-wood tree? Where the wilder breath Oh, no! oh, no! Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs, Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore; Yet not there-nor in Greece, though I love it more. In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find? No! on an Irish green hill-side, On an opening lawn-but not too wide; If one were sure to be buried so. ANON. A WISH. OH! that I were a fairy sprite to wander In forest paths, o'erarched with oak and beech; Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea, While one by one the evening stars shine forth Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens Like floating purple wreaths of mournful nightshade! F. A. BUTLER. MY FATHER. "At evening-time there shall be light." SACRED the hour when thou, my sainted father, Wast of thy worn-out sinking clay undressed, Softly, by his pale hand who comes to gather Time's weary pilgrims home to joy and rest. |