What was it but seeking, through every bright hour, GOOD-BYE. GOOD-BYE! the word is lightly spoken Than utter now "Good-bye-good-bye!" Good-bye! to some, O joy-not sorrow! Our hearts' wild cry, Are in that word, "Good-bye-good-bye!" O SUMMER, PAINT ME HER SWEET LIPS. O SUMMER, paint me her sweet lips upon thy glowing air! Across thy gloom, O Winter, fling the dark night of her hair! O Memory, tender Memory, hear my cry ! Give back, give back the loving lips I never more may touch! Red the geranium's scarlet show'd but poor and pale by such! O Memory! bring but these again, and thou wilt give, how much! O but to see her face again, and die! Yet more, O more, O bring me more than yearn'd-for face and form The dark eye, misty with its love—the blush with passion warm All my blood leapt up to answer in the past! O give me not the coral of her curving lip alone, But the words in which the quivering heart beat, trembling, through each tone, And the warm dear silence, more than words, that own'd her all my own, And the white arms hung around me at the last! O foolish heart, be still, be still! thy cry is ever vain For the looks, and smiles, and burning tears that shall not come again, All that never more thy living eyes shall see. The buried past is far and cold, and silent in its grave; How poor is Memory's power one faint, wan, fleeting glimpse to save, Of all that never-never more may be ! DIE, DAY! DIE, day! die, day! Here, for night and her I stay; Come, night! come, night! Come, night! come, sweet night! HOW LIGHTLY SLEEPING CUPID LIES. How lightly sleeping Cupid lies, And smiles, and dreams within my heart! Awake to sweet life with a start; Yet, if to life the slumberer leap, Quick at a glance-a touch-a tone, How lightly, too, he sinks to sleep, How well to many a heart is known! Pout not, sweet lips; those eyes' bright power What though from out the shadowy past Soft laughs he hears-sees dear eyes gleam! Hopes-fears that long have lived their last, What though their sweetness haunt his dream! How weak their power! From dreams he breaks; The Past's dear charm no more endures; Beneath your smile he thrills-he wakes, His tears-his laughs-his life but yours. A WIFE'S SONG. O WELL I love the Spring, When the sweet, sweet hawthorn blows; And well I love the Summer, And the coming of the rose; But dearer are the changing leaf, And the year upon the wane, For O they bring the blessed time November may be dreary; A SPRING SONG. LONG has been the winter, We've sought the bud upon the bough, But, sing! Summer's coming! Sing! Winter's flying; Loud shouts the cuckoo ; There are shadows on the ground. The bee's out at last. Sing! Winter's flying; Summer's coming fast; Humming hope and Spring-time, The bee's out at last. FROM A GARRET. A LONDON LYRIC. DEAR wife, the crowded, bustling street, Or pity us as sadly poor. And are we poor? Yes, I confess Pride scorns, too, Kate, that cotton dress, But are these, Kate, the only wealth? What if no West-end mansion be |