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Underneath the Mistletoe 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY EDWARD LyPALES. 
 
 "^^/' OF vv^i^ ' 
 
 MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 *1881. 
 
 ( I 
 

 fA- 
 
 Topyright, 1881, by Edward L. Fales 
 
 PRESS OF 
 EAGLE PUBUSHINR CO., PRINTERS AND BINDEF 
 
UNDERNEATH THE MISTLETOE. 
 
 At last the night has come, 
 
 My hero seeks his rest, 
 For preparation's busy hum 
 
 Has ceased and pillows may be pressed 
 The loaded Christmas-tree 
 Is ready tor the morning's glee. 
 
 He is of gentle mind, 
 
 And once was well content 
 To see his life stream calmly wind. 
 
 Within the same green borders pent ; 
 Its waters ever clear, 
 Where simple reason did ajipear. 
 
 But that has passed away. 
 
 And he has felt a change, 
 AVhich makes occasion for this lay 
 
 And gives his life a wider range. 
 That it may leap its banks 
 And sport in passion's lawless pranks. 
 
 He ne'er will know again 
 
 The peaceful mind of yore, 
 The placid flow of spirits when 
 
 True love to him no meaning bore, 
 P^re yet his bosom felt 
 Inflaming darts by Cupid dealt. 
 
 For he is now in love, 
 
 And with a damsel fair. 
 No seraph bright in heaven above 
 
 In beauty can with her compare ; 
 At least he thinks so now. 
 Which, for an argument, allow. 
 
UNDERNEATH THE MISTLETOE. 
 
 Sometimes she smiles on him, 
 Or lets him squeeze her hand, 
 
 And in the moonlight softly dim 
 
 His bashful arm her waist has spanned, 
 
 In silence she has heard 
 
 Him whisper many a loving word. 
 
 Yet for his perfect bliss 
 
 There is one other need : 
 He fam would gain a honeyed kiss, 
 
 In which his foolish heart would read 
 TJiat she his love returned — 
 The same fond flame in either burned. 
 
 His deep desire avails 
 
 Him not in his attempt, 
 For every time his courage fails, 
 
 And brings him in his own contempt 
 That he should fear to speak 
 Requesting what his longings seek. 
 
 Not bashfulness alone 
 
 Makes all this paltering. 
 For in his mind the thought has grown 
 
 That possibly such quest may bring 
 To an untimely end 
 What joys the Gods already send. 
 
 This damsel whom he loves 
 
 His passion fails to mold ; 
 Within her heart young turtle-doves 
 
 Have never dared their wings to fold ; 
 Her temper seems so cold, 
 To hope success appears too bold. 
 
 And thus do matters stand. 
 
 Betwixt the cup and lip. 
 Because he lacks that gritty sand 
 
 Which might suffice to gain the clip. 
 This dubious way we'll leave 
 And bring him back to Christmas Eve. 
 
 He hies him to his bed. 
 
 And prays the angel Sleep 
 That through the night above his head 
 
 The God of Love may vigils keep ; 
 From him he hopes to borrow 
 The nerve to kiss her on the morrow. 
 
UNDERNEATH THE MISTLETOE. 
 
 Full soon above him sweep 
 
 The angel's heavy wings, 
 And all his common senses steep 
 
 In Lethe's tide; his mind still clings, 
 Now freed from Fact's dull sway, 
 To hopes that languished in the day. 
 
 And now with merry pace. 
 
 In wondrous windings whirled. 
 
 His wayward fancies ever chase 
 Each other through a dreamy world , 
 
 Mid scenes so fair, to youth 
 
 They seem the mirrored soul of truth. 
 
 He treads a princely hall 
 
 In style of olden time, 
 Green holly decks the oaken wall 
 
 Wliere curious antique carvings climb 
 Eound lance and axe and sword 
 That tell of many a warlike lord. 
 
 The pictures pendent there 
 
 Of fair and haughty faces, 
 Whose clear cut features all declare 
 
 The high-born blood of vanished races, 
 Would seem this night to show 
 A gracious and reviving glow. 
 
 Those faces now look down 
 
 As they were wont to look 
 In other days, when arms' renown 
 
 Made all the right that men could l)rook, 
 The hearty, good old times 
 Oi Christmas carols, feasts and chimes. 
 
 All this he seems to see, 
 
 And yet he must not stay 
 To ponder what their fame may be ; 
 
 Some subtle charm l)eguiles away, 
 Some unseen spirit leads 
 Him on, but where he slightly heeds. 
 
 He treads the polished floors 
 
 As if with velvet shod, 
 Erewhile his airy spirit soars 
 
 As if he were a very god 
 And by his slightest beck 
 Might hold the sternest fate in check. 
 
UNDERNEATH THE MISTLETOE. 
 
 For still with merry pace, 
 In wondrous windings whirled, 
 
 His wayward fancies ever chase 
 
 Each other through a dreamy world, 
 
 Mid scenes so fair, to youth 
 
 They seem the mirrored soul of truth. 
 
 Through stately rooms he wends 
 
 His ever brightening way, 
 Where every ancient trophy sends 
 
 The greeting of some knightly day 
 When love's and war's alarms 
 Made havoc with their mingled charms. 
 
 And still that unseen force 
 
 Impels his willing feet 
 Along what seems a certain course 
 
 To something that is strangely sweet ; 
 Even now his being glows 
 With what he feels will soon disclose. 
 
 A rosy light is shed 
 
 Before him on his way ; 
 An arch with ruby curtains spread, 
 
 Whose graceful-hanging folds, and gay, 
 Are slightly drawn aside 
 And there with golden tassels tied. 
 
 One moment comes the old 
 
 Unmanly timidness, 
 And then beneath the red and gold 
 
 He bravely steps^then stops, to bless 
 The scene whose glad surprise 
 Makes wide and bright his gloating eyes. 
 
 Well may he now rejoice, 
 
 There waiting for him stands 
 The only darling of his choice 
 
 With smiles, with uplift welcoming hands. 
 And speaking eyes whose light 
 Is vastly changed since yesternight. 
 
 O joy ! above her there 
 
 Is hung the mistletoe ; 
 Its shadow on her light-brown hair 
 
 Makes lovelier still the conscious glow 
 On that beloved face, 
 Revpaling passion's new-born grace. 
 
UNDERNEATH THE MISTLETOE. 
 
 A blood-rebounding hush — 
 
 An all convincing glance — 
 An eager step — a charming blush — 
 
 Each heart against its love-mate pants — 
 And then the sweet old storj^ 
 Of love's tirst kiss and life's first glory ! 
 
 'Tis thus with merry pace, 
 In wondrous windings whirled, 
 
 His wayward fancies ever chase 
 Each other through a dreamy world. 
 
 Mid scenes so fair, to youth 
 
 They seem the mirrored soul of truth. 
 
 But all must have an end, 
 
 The morning comes at length. 
 Those happy dreams in memory send 
 
 Through all his being hope's new strength 
 And life seems made of more 
 Than ever it contained before. 
 
 Through all the morning's glee — 
 
 Bright hours that slip away 
 AVith kinsfolk at the merry tree, 
 
 Or lonely in the twilight gray. 
 
 His feelings overflow all day 
 In singing, glad and low, 
 This song of the mistletoe : 
 
 1. 
 Why regret the childish joys 
 
 For which the merry bells are rung ? 
 Or days of sugar jilums and toys 
 
 Found in stockings gaily hung ? 
 For the greatest joy to me 
 
 Any Christmas time can show 
 Was the kiss I took from thee 
 
 Underneath the mistletoe. 
 2. 
 In my heart the chimes now ring 
 
 Sweeter far than bells can sound ; 
 With their melody they bring 
 
 Love's content, for I have found 
 All I neeil to happy be, 
 
 Joy and peace so bounteous flow 
 In the kiss I took from thee- 
 
 Underneath the mistletoe. 
 
MINXEHAHA. 
 
 Ever ringing, still I hear, 
 
 Love, the music of thy voice ! 
 Every hour I wish thee near, 
 
 In thy smile I would rejoice ; 
 When again its light I see, 
 
 I will give thee back, I trow. 
 That sweet kiss I took from thee 
 
 Underneath the mistletoe. 
 
 MINNEHAHA. 
 
 Dash the veil of spray 
 From thy face away. 
 Greet the smiling day, — 
 
 Pretty Minnehaha. 
 
 From thy rushing wings. 
 From thy silver strings, 
 Sweetest music springs, — 
 
 Singing Minnehaha. 
 
 Who can fail to see 
 In thy careless glee 
 Best philosophy, — 
 
 Merry Minnehaha. 
 
 Nature's daughter free. 
 How I long to be 
 Wild and pure like thee, — 
 Happy Minnehaha. 
 
 The snow-white butterfly 
 
 Cannot pass thee by. 
 
 But seeks thy mist to die, — 
 
 Charming Minnehaha. 
 
 When the shadows fall 
 On thee like a pall. 
 Still the night-bird's call 
 
 Echoes Minnehaha. 
 
 I fain would leave the strife 
 With which this world is rife, 
 Here to pass my life 
 
 Loving Minnehaha. 
 
LOST OPPORTUNITIES. 
 WINTER. 
 
 Hear sweet Laughing Water breaking 
 
 Through her icy bound, 
 All her crystal fetters shaking 
 
 With glee that echoes round. 
 The leafless trees are bowing 
 
 Above her frozen stream, 
 But for all their dreary soughing 
 
 Her laughs the lighter seem. 
 
 Ever merry in her flowing, 
 
 Speaking to the soul. 
 Laughter all the pathway showing 
 
 To happiness the goal — 
 No brooklet man may cherish, 
 
 No fountain ever gushed. 
 But in thought will sooner perish 
 
 When flow and voice are hushed. 
 
 LOST OPPORTUNITIES. 
 
 One morning, as I strolled a woodland place 
 
 And watched the sun's bright arrow^s glance among 
 
 The trees, a saucy bird in passing flung 
 
 A zephyr from its wings into my face. 
 
 So close it swept with all unfettered grace, 
 
 I might have caught it ; then it would have sung 
 
 Its sweetest songs for me, aud to my tongue 
 
 Have learned to give reply, and helped to chase 
 
 The darkest hours of life from me away. 
 
 But no — free on its course allowed to go. 
 
 It came no more : like many a happy thought 
 
 Which flashes through the mind its glorious ray. 
 
 Suggesting springs of light, which never flow, 
 
 For in its bird-like flight it is not caught. 
 
 THE POOR POET'S GRAVE. 
 
 His life-house was built upon sand ; 
 
 His song-voice was faint and fleeting ; 
 Unlaureled he came to this land 
 
 And the summons of death gave him greeting. 
 All meekly the weeds o'er him wave. 
 
 Of perished remembrance a token, 
 For he sleeps in a pauper's grave 
 
 And the strings of his harp are broken. 
 
ROBIN REDBREASTS. 
 
 The warp of one's fame may be fair, 
 
 And the woof that should bind it be wanting — 
 The thought almost wakens despair, 
 
 For the fate of poor Patrick is haunting ; 
 But still I must hope and be brave, — 
 
 Though I've feelings that cannot be spoken, 
 When I think of his pauper grave 
 
 And the strings of his harp all broken. 
 
 EOBIN REDBREASTS. 
 
 Listen to the robin redbreasts. 
 
 Little Rosebud, do you hear them? 
 See them gloAving mid the branches ; 
 
 Let us creep up near them. 
 
 See that big one on the oak tree, 
 Proud his rosy front displaying ; 
 
 Clear and sweet his voice is ringing ; 
 Wonder what he's saying ! 
 
 Hark, my darling, he will tell us. 
 
 O ! how gladly he is singing — 
 Singing from the bending tree-top, 
 
 Joyful tidings bringing. 
 
 'T is the voice of pulsing springtime, 
 
 Woodland melodies awaking, 
 Speaking through the robin redbreasts, 
 
 Happy music making. 
 
 W armer, brighter days are coming ; 
 
 Lightsome hearts will leap to meet them ; 
 Lift your voice, my Little Rosebud, — 
 
 With the birds we'll greet them ! 
 
 THE TENDER, BROODING TWILIGHT. 
 
 The tender, brooding twilight spreads 
 
 Above the star reflecting lake. 
 The silver beams that Hesper sheds 
 
 Are dancing in our tremulous wake — 
 And yet how light we move along ; 
 
 While, gazing on my fair Lenore, 
 I do not heed the boisterous song 
 
 Of revelers on the shore. 
 
OOLDEN HAIR. 
 
 My thoughts are worship, she the shrine 
 
 Where all my aspirations rise ; 
 In vain those rival stars may shine, 
 
 ]My beacon-lights are bright blue eyes. 
 "While ministering angels round us throng, 
 
 And bless me with my fair Lenore, 
 Why should I heed the boisterous song 
 
 Of revelers on the shore ? 
 
 'Tis said that o'er each love untold 
 
 The smiles of Cupid melt in tears : 
 My bursting heart I all unfold — 
 
 She lifts her eyes, her joy appears, — 
 And then, as if that look were wrong, 
 
 The faltering voice of fair Lenore 
 Would bid me heed the boisterous song 
 
 Of revelers on the shore. 
 
 Ah ! no, my sweet, this will not do. 
 
 Not thus you'll turn me from the track, 
 For all my thoughts are bound in you, — 
 
 What eyes have spoken shall lips take back ? 
 True, dear, you have not known me long, 
 
 But well I love my fair Lenore ! 
 Why should I heed the boisterous song 
 
 Of revelers on the shore ? 
 
 For in that look of yours I trace 
 
 A melody that heaven might hear, 
 A sweet refrain of womanly grace, 
 
 A soaring bird-song, fresh and clear ! 
 If now your lips to me belong. 
 
 Sing love to me, my fair Lenore, 
 And I'll not heed the boisterous song 
 
 Of revelers on the shore. 
 
 GOLDEN HAIR. 
 
 Some brilliant ray attracts mine eye, 
 
 I follow it and here esny 
 
 A golden hair upon my sleeve ! 
 
 From what fair star did you receive 
 
 That silken sheen, so soft, so bright, 
 
 Reminding of some past delight? 
 
 She surely had a pretty head 
 
 Who dropped this fine and glossy thread ; 
 
 Yet whence it came, or when 'twas shed. 
 
FAIRY TALES. 
 
 Or why upon my arm it fell, 
 Is more in truth than I can tell. 
 Its sunny glance enchains mine eye 
 And cunningly it makes reply : 
 "Why foolishly and vainly try 
 To shirk the blame, or thus imply 
 That only by the play of chance 
 Do I this morning meet your glance 
 In such an odd, unheard of spot ? 
 Such week deceit becomes you not. 
 No sleeve e'er bears these golden hairs 
 Without a cause or unawares. 
 Did not her curls, with careless grace, 
 Sweep gently o'er this very place 
 Last evening when the light burned low 
 And two young hearts were all aglow? 
 O, never fear ! it will be clear 
 To all who see me shining here. 
 And they will ask what maiden fair 
 Has left with you this golden hair !" 
 
 FAIRY TALES. 
 
 I am reminded of the many hours 
 Which I have passed deep in your witching lore. 
 For in my boyish heart you b 'held — before 
 Your elfin queens had lost their magic powers — 
 Most high and royal state ; your woodland bowers, 
 Your moon-lit dances on the charm bound floor 
 AVere real to me, and I did love to pore 
 Enrapt o'er stories strange of golden showers 
 By fairy wands on Fortune's children shed ; 
 And in my innocence I sometimes dreamed 
 That I might be of them. Ah ! long since fled 
 My faith in things which once so natural seemed ; 
 Yet still within my heart, though reason rails, 
 I wish you might be true, sweet fairy tales ! 
 
 SLOWLY THE WESTERN SUN. 
 
 Slowly the western sun is declining, 
 Slowly the shades are gathering around, 
 
 While through the haze the beam latest shining 
 Gives to each cloud a golden bound, 
 
 Taking the place of silvery lining. 
 
THE FALLS OF ST. ANTIWNV. 
 
 Lightly the stiUness of night is creeping ; 
 
 Spirits of peace now brood in the gloam ; 
 Gone is the day, with joy or with weeping, 
 
 Bringing the hour of rest at home. 
 Bringing the sweet refreshment of sleeping. 
 
 Tenderly now my heart is o'erflowing. 
 Thinking of all the suns that have set ; 
 
 Viewing the past, with all its good showing. 
 Gratitude's tears my lashes wet, 
 
 Soft as the dew which evening is sowing. 
 
 THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY. 
 
 Grand old stream ! 
 You never rest, but constantly flow 
 From the calm above to the riot below. 
 A sweep to the edge, 
 A leap from the ledge — 
 Down, down, down you go. 
 To roar mid the ragged rocks below. 
 
 Roar, roar, roar ! 
 With a mighty voice ; but its deepest tone 
 Sounds to me like a giant's groan. 
 
 You well may groan. 
 The works of man, in a gold-greedy time, 
 Have laid their chains on the waters sublime : 
 
 No more, no more 
 
 As wild as before — 
 Down, down, down you go, 
 To roar mid the ragged rocks below. 
 
 Chained, chained, chained. 
 While the years go by ; still the saddest tone 
 Of that noble voice never sinks to a moan. 
 
 NO KISS FONDLY WAITING FOR ME. 
 
 Of the days that will never return. 
 
 In sorrow I'm dreaming to-night ; 
 How my heart did impatiently burn 
 
 As I watched every day take its flight, 
 Bringing nearer the sweet, blissful hour 
 
 When we met 'neath the old garden tree. 
 And I claimed from her lips' budding flower 
 
 The kiss fondly waiting for me. 
 
TEAR AND SMILE. 
 
 But her love did not last like my own, 
 
 It was formed in a far weaker mold, 
 My poor heart nearly burst with its moan 
 
 When I found her affection grown cold. 
 About me the shadows have crept. 
 
 And sad will my heart ever be, 
 Since I heard from those lips that she kept 
 
 No kiss fondly waiting for me. 
 
 Of a maiden so cruel — so sweet — 
 
 In sorrow I'm dreaming to-night. 
 And the scorn my caressings did meet 
 
 In my heart like a serpent doth bite. 
 There is nothing can chase from my brow 
 
 The gloom resting there, for I see 
 No darling to welcome me now. 
 
 No kiss fondly waiting for me. 
 
 TEAR AND SMILE. 
 
 The flowers of spring are young and bright, 
 
 And deck themselves in smiles of light. 
 
 O stars of day, forever stay ! 
 
 Through all the air the moisture rare 
 
 Gathers in rain-drops for the hour 
 
 When blossoms fair shall drink the shower. 
 
 And droop beneath the glistening wet 
 
 Like precious stones with sea-pearls set. 
 
 The smiles of youth are joy's warm breath, 
 
 And when they play the spirit saith. 
 
 These are too gay to pass away. 
 
 Under the lid there still lie hid 
 
 Tear-drops waiting for the hour 
 
 When sorrows bid them freely shower. 
 
 Lip and dimple but dissemble 
 
 The wrinkling care, the piteous tremble. 
 
 When flowers must die, 'tis with a sigh 
 
 We see their petals fall apart. 
 
 And smiles that fade will leave a shade 
 
 Upon the face and in the heart. 
 
 All do not die, all do not fade ; 
 
 When by-and-by our fears are laid. 
 
 See new life springing everywhere. 
 
 The tears that rise in sad young eyes 
 
 Refine the smiles that linger there ; 
 
 From cooling rain and transient glooming 
 
BABY AND GRANDPA. 
 
 The flowers burst forth in fresher blooming ; 
 
 From sorrows borne, from conquered duty, 
 
 The smile shall leap in purer beauty. 
 
 Tear and smile 
 
 Are sister blessings all the while, 
 
 And sisterly may dwell together 
 
 As sunbeams shine on dewy heather. 
 
 BABY AND GRANDPA. 
 
 Let the baby come to grandpa ! 
 
 See the old face light with joy. 
 While his trembling arms outstretching 
 
 To receive our baby boy. 
 Mother's little tramp is started. 
 
 Toddling across the floor with glee. 
 Will he tumble ? No ! he's safely 
 Riding now on grandpa's knee. 
 Deep his chubby fists he buries 
 
 In the patriarchal beard. 
 Soon the joyous eyes that watch him 
 
 By the searching thumbs are speared. 
 Grandpa groans in false lamenting. 
 
 And a tear unbidden flows, 
 While with Avicked triumph dancing, 
 Lustily our baby crows ! 
 
 Happy baby ! Little recks he 
 
 Why the aged blood runs slow ; 
 Nothing knows he of the troubles 
 
 Which have crowned that head with snow. 
 
 Boyhood's days are all before him ; 
 
 Happier days ne'er come through life ; 
 Are we better when they leave us 
 
 Warriors in the world's hard strife? 
 
 Look at grandpa ! Playful, merry, 
 
 Seems he not a boy again ? 
 Don't his ruddy, beaming features 
 
 Tell us life is not in vain ? 
 
 Blessed are the hours of childhood, 
 Whether in life's morn or eve,— 
 
 And the future holds some pleasure 
 For us all, we may believe. 
 
THE RIVER-LAKE. 
 
 Give the baby then to grandpa ; 
 
 Surely none has better right ; 
 See, the winsome baby prattle 
 
 Makes the old face look so bright. 
 
 THE EIVER-LAKE. 
 
 After the cooling shower 
 Soft is the twilight hour 
 
 On the river-lake. 
 Sweetly the plaintive note 
 Gushes from whippoorwill's throat, 
 Gently, gently we float, 
 
 Light as a fine snowflake, 
 
 Down the river-lake. 
 The dripping oars at rest 
 
 Their murmurous music wake. 
 And ripple o'er the breast 
 
 Of the peaceful river-lake. 
 
 The lovely shadows fall 
 Like a sin-outshutting wall 
 
 On the river-lake, 
 Charming the hour and place. 
 The holiness we trace 
 In nature's quiet grace 
 
 Makes sacred for her sake 
 
 All on the river-lake. 
 O this is purest joy ! 
 
 This it is that makes 
 Me love the wide St. Croix, 
 
 The river-lake of lakes. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 To-night my heart is weeping ; 
 
 I think how all my joys are flown. 
 How sorrow's chill is o'er me creeping. 
 
 How dark my days have grown, — 
 And hope within me dying. 
 
 Whose promise once so brightly shone, 
 Heeds not my anguished soul-voice crying 
 
 O leave me not alone ! 
 
ADIEU, LITTLE ROSEBUD. 
 
 The phantoms round me thronging, 
 
 In all their garbs familiar dight, 
 Nor satisfy the s^^eechless longing 
 
 Nor gratify the sight, 
 For they increase the welling 
 
 Of thoughts now crushing in their might, 
 And to my prostrate heart keep telling 
 
 How lone I am to-night. 
 
 ADIEU, LITTLE ROSEBUD. 
 
 Adieu, Little Rosebud, adieu ! 
 
 My only sad parting is this, 
 For I leave with regret none but you. 
 
 Come, give me one sweet little kiss ! 
 'Twill be long ere my lips lose the thrill. 
 'Tis gladness to know there is one — pure and true- 
 One darling to think of me still. 
 
 Farewell to the lips that are cold. 
 
 Farewell to the hearts that forget ; 
 My affections have lost every hold 
 
 Save the arms of my innocent pet, — 
 And now I must sever this too. 
 No cruel farewell shall unloose the dear fold, 
 But 0, Little Rosebud — adieu ! 
 
 IN FANCY BLEST. 
 
 My spirit soars on pinions light 
 Beyond the life that would confine, 
 
 And now are all the joys of bright 
 And perfect vision mine. 
 
 I feel no more the night of pain, 
 
 Since fortune walks no more with fate ; 
 
 The flower of love reveals no stain, 
 And hearts admit no hate. 
 
 If life were sweet in every breath, 
 What soul would long from earth to fly ? 
 
 If happiness were found in death. 
 Who would not dare to die ? 
 
 In life perfection is not found, 
 While death is only perfect rest ; 
 
 Then let me quit this gloomy bound 
 And be in fancy blest ! 
 
ON THE DEATH OF BSY'AXT. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF BRYANT. 
 
 Her sons in sorrow bow, 
 
 For Nature's poet in the tomb is laid ; 
 His pen is rusting now, 
 
 But never will its hallowed tracings fade. 
 
 That sacred, honored name 
 
 Within our grateful hearts can never die ; 
 His fair, enduring fame 
 
 Will shine even brighter as the years roll by. 
 
 His songs are numbered all. 
 
 He cannot charm us with another rhyme. 
 For he has heard the call 
 
 Of Death, and met the sharpened scythe of Time. 
 
 But truly he has won 
 
 As goodly fruitage as the very best ; 
 And now his race is run, 
 
 We feel that he has nobly earned his rest. 
 
 Our deepest thanks belong 
 
 To the fair day that saw his happy birth, — 
 A bard of purest song 
 
 Now sleeps for aye upon the breast of earth. 
 
 The sunset hues begin to fade away. 
 The rosy cloud-tips one by one are fled. 
 And billowy folds of quiet, sober gray 
 Are drivieg from the sky all trace of red. 
 The musky twilight is so calmly sped 
 We scarcely know when it has taken its flight ; 
 But now the clouds are parting overhead, 
 Revealing wells of azure deeply bright, 
 And through their vistas peep the twinkling stars of night. 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 Shine on. sweet star ! a pearl on high. 
 That glistens from the shell of night- 
 Together nigh, my love and I 
 Are folded in thy tender light. 
 
 Shine on, sweet star ! so whitely pure, 
 How steadily thy beams incline ; 
 
 Yet do thy very best, I'm sure 
 My love will truer, purer shine. 
 
A NIGHT SONG. 
 
 Shine on, sweet star I and know that she 
 Beside nie now is sweeter far, 
 
 And her dear eyes more bright to me 
 Than all the heavenly star-hosts are. 
 
 Shine on, sweet star ! but never speak 
 Of curious sounds that reach thee now, 
 
 Wlien I salute her willing cheek 
 And in her ear my love avow. 
 
 Shine on, sweet star ! that seems content 
 To shed thy ray at close of day. 
 
 Like thee — with hearts in rapture blent — 
 AVe peaceful pass the hours away. 
 
 A NIGHT SONG. 
 
 A spirit of peace guards the river to-night 
 
 While the winds and the waves are asleep, 
 And the stars overhead throw a richly dim light 
 
 On the glassy yet swift gliding deep, 
 Making softer the shadows that fringe the dark shore, 
 
 Making mellow the Ughts mirrored there. 
 And returning to them — lovelier far than before — 
 
 All the radiance they lost in the air. 
 
 If my days ran as smooth as the river below. 
 If my heart were as pxire as the sky, 
 
 Not a soul wandering forth in this night's early glow- 
 Would enjoy its delight more than I ; 
 
 If the scene could but shed its contentment on me, 
 Could my breast make a dwelling for peace, 
 
 The happiest night of my life this would be. 
 And the song on my lips would not cease. 
 
lis 
 

 
 
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