The Song of the Birds. WITH what a gentle dirge its voice did fill I heard its sweet tones like an echo sounding, It seemed the song of some poor broken heart, Of one that has loved much yet never known The luxury of being loved again! But when the morning broke, and the green woods Were all alive with birds with what a clear And ravishing sweetness, sung the plaintive thrush; I love to hear its delicate rich voice, Chanting through all the gloomy day, when loud Amid the trees is dropping the big rain, And gray mists wrap the hills; for aye the sweeter Its song is when the day is sad and dark. And thus, When the bright fountains of a woman's love But darken, with its melancholy shadow The bright flowers round our way; her heart Doth learn new sweetness, and her rich voice falls With more delicious sweetness on our ear. LONGFELLOW. Books. GOLDEN Volumes! richest treasures! Objects of delicious pleasures! You my eyes rejoicing please, Miserere Nobis. WHO can describe the misereres of the Sistine Chapel? Never by mortal sense was heard a strain of such powerful, such heartmoving pathos! The accordant tones of a hundred human voices, and one that seemed more than human, ascended together to heaven for mercy to mankind, for pardon to a guilty and sinning world. It had nothing in it of this earth, nothing that breathed the ordinary feelings of our nature. It seemed as if every sense and power had been concentrated into that plaintive expression of lamentation, of deep suffering, and supplication which possesses the soul. It was the strain that disembodied spirits might have used who had just passed the boundaries of death, and sought release from that mysterious weight of woe and tremblings of mortal agony that they had suffered in the passage to the grave. It was the music of another state of being. COOMBE ALBEY. Song. WHEN stars are in the quiet skies, For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, There is an hour when angels keep Familiar watch on men ; When coarser souls are wrapped in sleep There is an hour when holy dreams, The thoughts of thee too sacred are I can but know thee as my star, My angel, and my my dream. BULWER. Youth and Hope and Love. IN early youth, when life is new, And pleasure seems without alloy. The heart is warm, no chilling fears And sweetly seems to say -"forever." And if sometimes a sudden storm But soon, alas! too soon 't is past! Love! thou dear source of all our bliss, Till thou hast laid thy victim low? |