THE STAR AND THE LILY.

I would not have thee know,

The stream that seems to thee so still,

Has such a tide below!

Enough! that in delicious dreams
I see thee and forget—

Enough, that when the morning beams,
I feel my eye-lids wet!

Yet, could I hope, when Time shall fall
The darkness for creation's pall,

To meet thee-and to love,

I would not shrink from aught below,
Nor ask for more above.

THE STAR AND THE LILY.

THE sun stepped down from his golden throne, And lay in the silent sea,

And the Lily had folded her satin leaves,

For a sleepy thing was she;

What was the Lily dreaming about?

O what is that to you?

And why did she open her drooping lids
And look at the sky so blue?

The Rose is cooling his burning cheek,
In the lap of the breathless tide-
Thou hast many a sister fresh and fair,

139

140

THE STAR AND THE LILY.

That would lie by the Rose's side;

He would love thee better than all the rest,
And he would be fond and true,-
But the Lily unfolded her weary lids,
And looked at the sky so blue.

Now think thee, think thee thou silly one,
How fast will thy summer glide,
And wilt thou wither a virgin pale,
Or flourish a blooming bride?

O the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold,
And he lives on earth, said she,

But the star is fair and he lives in the air,
And he shall my bridegroom be.

But what if the stormy cloud should come,
And ruffle the silver sea,

Would he turn his eye from the distant sky,

To smile on a thing like thee?

O no fair Lily, he will not send

One ray from his far off throne,

The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow, And thou wilt be left alone.

There is not a leaf on the mountain top,

Nor a drop of evening dew,

Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore,
Nor a pearl in the waters blue,

That he has not cheered with his fickle smile,
And warmed with his faithless beam,-

TO MY CIGAR.

And will he be true to a pallid flower
That floats on the quiet stream?

Alas for the Lily! she would not heed,
But turned to the skies afar,

And bared her breast to the trembling ray,
That shot from the rising star;

The cloud came over the darkened sky,

And over the waters, wide:

She looked in vain through the beating rain,
And sank in the stormy tide.

141

O. W. H.

TO MY CIGAR.

BY CHARLES SPRAGUE.

YES, social friend, I love thee well,

In learned doctors' spite;

I love thy fragrant, misty spell,
I love thy calm delight.

What though they tell, with phizzes long,
My years are sooner past;

I would reply, with reason strong,
They 're sweeter while they last.

And oft, mild friend, to me thou art
A monitor, though still;"

Thou speak'st a lesson to my heart,
Beyond the preacher's skill.

142

TO MY CIGAR.

Thou 'rt like the man of worth, whọ gives

To goodness every day,

The odor of whose virtues lives,
When he has passed away.

When in the lonely evening hour,
Attended but by thee,

O'er history's varied page I pore,
Man's fate in thine I see.

Oft as thy snowy column grows,
Then breaks and falls away,

I trace how mighty realms have rose,
Thus tumbled to decay.

Awhile like thee earth's masters burn,
And smoke and fume around,

And then like thee to ashes turn,
And mingle with the ground.

Life's but a leaf adroitly rolled,
And time's the wasting breath,
That late or early, we behold,
Gives all to dusty death.

From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe,
One common doom is passed,
Sweet nature's works, the swelling globe,
Must all burn out at last.

2

TO THE SOUTH WIND.

And what is he who smokes thee now?

A little moving heap,

That soon like thee to fate must bow,

With thee in dust must sleep.

But though thy ashes downward go,
Thy essence rolls on high;
Thus when my body must lie low,
My soul shall cleave the sky.

143

TO THE SOUTH WIND.

BY J. W. MILLER.

BALMY breeze from the blossomy South,
Kissing my lips with thy tender mouth,
Touching my forehead with delicate hand,
Lifting my hair up with breath so bland,
And bathing my head with scents of flowers,
Borne from the laps of Southern bowers,—
Balmy breeze, I behold not thee,

Yet oh! how beautiful thou must be!

Stay-wilt thou stay, sweet breeze!-ah! now
It hath fled away from my lip and brow;
There, over the plain its wide robe spreads,
And the gentle flowers are bending their heads;
It hath entered the wood,-the beautiful breeze!
I hear its music among the trees;'