Stanzas to a Lady.

When sails the moon above the mountains,
And cloudless skies are purely blue,
And sparkle in the light the fountains,
And darker frowns the lonely yew;
Then be thou melancholy too,

When musing on the hours I proved
With thee, beloved!

When wakes the dawn upon thy dwelling,
And lingering shadows disappear,
And soft the woodland songs are swelling,
A choral anthem on thine ear;
Think-for that hour to thought is dear-
And then her flight remembrance brings
To by-past things.

To me, through every season, dearest,
In every scene-by day, by night-
Thou present to my mind appearest
A quenchless star for ever bright!
My solitary, sole delight!

Alone, in grove, by shore, at sea,
I think of thee!

A

Stanzas to a Lady.

BY T. K. HERVEY.

CROSS the waves, away and far,

My spirit turns to thee;

I love thee as men love a star,

The brightest where a thousand are,
Sadly and silently;

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With love unstain'd by hopes or fears,
Too deep for words, too pure for tears!

My heart is tutor'd not to weep;
Calm, like the calm of even,

Where grief lies hush'd, but not asleep,
Hallows the hours I love to keep

For only thee and heaven;

Too far and fair to aid the birth

Of thoughts that have a taint of earth.

And yet the days for ever gone,

When thou wert as a bird,

Living 'mid flowers and leaves alone,

And singing in so soft a tone

As I never since have heard,

Will make me grieve that birds, and things

So beautiful, have ever wings.

And there are hours in the lonely night

When I seem to hear thy calls,

Faint as the echoes of far delight,

And dreamy and sad as the sighing flight

Of distant waterfalls ;—

And then my vow is heard to keep,

For it were a joy, indeed, to weep.

For I feel as men feel when moonlight falls
Amid old cathedral aisles;

Or the wind plays sadly along the walls

Of lonely and forsaken halls,

That we knew in their day of smiles;

Or as one who hears, amid foreign flowers,
A tune he had learn'd in his mother's bowers.

Stanzas to a Lady.

But I may not, and I dare not weep,
Lest the vision pass away,

And the vigils that I love to keep

Be broken up by the fever'd sleep
That leaves me with the day,

Like one who has travell'd far to the spot
Where his home should be, and finds it not.

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Yet then, like the incense of many flowers,
Rise pleasant thoughts to me;

For I know, from thy dwelling in Eastern
bowers,

That thy spirit has come, in those silent hours,

To meet me o'er the sea;

And I feel in my soul the fadeless truth
Of her whom I loved in early youth.

Like hidden streams-whose quiet tone

Is unheard in the garish day,

That utter a music all their own,

When the night-dew falls, and the lady moon
Looks out to hear them play-

I knew not half thy gentle worth,
Till grief drew all its music forth.

We shall not meet on earth again-
And I would have it so;

For they tell me that the cloud of pain
Has flung its shadow o'er thy brain,
And touch'd thy looks with woe;

And I have heard that storm and shower

Have dimm'd thy loveliness, my flower!

I would not look upon thy tears;
For I have thee in my heart,

Just as thou wert in those blessed years
When we were both too young for fears
That we should ever part;

And I would not aught should mar the spell,
The picture nursed so long and well.

I love to think on thee as one
With whom the strife is o'er;

And feel that I am journeying on,
Wasted, and weary, and alone,

To join thee on that shore

Where thou, I know, wilt look for me,
And I for ever be with thee.

Lines

WRITTEN IN A LONELY BURIAL-GROUND

ON THE NORTHERN COAST OF THE HIGHLANDS.

BY PROFESSOR WILSON.

OW mournfully this burial-ground

Sleeps 'mid old Ocean's solemn sound, Who rolls his bright and sunny waves All round these deaf and silent graves! The cold wan light that glimmers here, The sickly wild-flowers may not cheer; If here, with solitary hum,

The wandering mountain-bee doth come,

Lines Written in a Burial-Ground.

'Mid the pale blossoms short his stay,
To brighter leaves he booms away.
The sea-bird, with a wailing sound,
Alighteth softly on a mound,

And, like an image, sitting there
For hours amid the doleful air,
Seemeth to tell of some dim union,
Some wild and mystical communion,
Connecting with his parent sea
This lonesome stoneless cemetery.

This may not be the burial-place
Of some extinguish'd kingly race,
Whose name on earth, no longer known,
Hath moulder'd with the mouldering stone.
That nearest grave, yet brown with mould,
Seems but one summer twilight old;
Both late and frequent hath the bier
Been on its mournful visit here,
And yon green spot of sunny rest
Is waiting for its destined guest.

I see no little kirk-no bell

On Sabbath tinkleth through this dell.
How beautiful those graves and fair,
That, lying round the house of prayer,
Sleep in the shadow of its grace!

But Death has chosen this rueful place
For his own undivided reign;

And nothing tells that e'er again
The sleepers will forsake their bed-
Now, and for everlasting dead,

For Hope with Memory seems fled.

Wild-screaming bird! unto the sea
Winging thy flight reluctantly,

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