MOONLIGHT.-—TIIE
ROSE
AND
'rnn
And now every day, when the mail comes, comes Frank and lays a letter inside our sitting-room door, looks up and says, “From Boston, Miss Jane.”
One, so brought, is here now. He is in the chair—so, au revoir, but, dearest reader, au revoir. Yes! my dearest and best reader must expect me to hurry with my au revoir as I do now, when—au revoir, best reader.
MOONLIGHT. BY
MARCILLA H.
HINNS.
Who can gather up the brightness
Of the moonlight, as it plays
With such living, airy lightness,
Like the dancing,' of the fays?
Now, with witching grace, coquetting
With the pure white clouds above,
Till they, almost half regretting,
Sweetly blush with timid love.
Beautiful in midnight splendor,
Bringing visions dreamy, tender,
Is the moonlight on the clouds.
Soft its touch, full of caressing,
On the leaves that tremble much—
Tremble with excess of blessing
At that gentle, thrilling touch.
Is it strange that lovers listen
With wild joy to ardent vows,
When the softening lore-rays glistsl
On the overhanging bought-I?
Rare lovo teacher, from time olden,
Teaching young hearts lessons golden,
Is the moonlight ’mong the leaves.
Now upon the waters, glancing
Where the swiftest ripples whirl,
And the Naiads, lightly dancing,
Wear their richest robes of pearl—
Jeweled robes, whose varied sparkling,
Shames earth’s high wrought diadems,
While the eddies' shadowy darkling
Gentle fairies from their bowers
Slyly creep, cheered by its smile,
Giving their protegee flowers
Purest gems of dew the while;
Till the forest, upland, meadow,
Show rich traces of their care,
E'en the leaves the trees o'ershadow
Add new lustre to the gems.
Gleam with jewels, quaint and rare.
Minstrel winds make soft, entrancing
While our souls such beauties gather,
Music. for the sweet nymphs dancing
With the moonlight on the wares.
Bless the loving, watchful Father
For the moonlight pencilings.
THE
ROSE BY
AND THE
BEE.
EDWARD A. DARBY.
BESIDE the southern garden wall,
Where shone the sun the whole day long,
And where the birds of Spring were wont
To sing their first glad vernal song,
A rose‘bud, op'ning modestly,
Its damask petals half revealed.
And coyly wooed the wanton breeze
To taste the charms that were concealed.
More beautiful and yet more bold
The rose grew in the sun's warm rays;
The garden flowers proclaimed her queen,
And offered fealty and praise.
Right regal was their chosen queen—
A fairer you may ne'er behold,
Though decked with cost]y disdem,
And garnished o‘er with virgin gold.
A knightly bee on golden wing
Disporting free from flower to flower—
Now flaunting gayly in the sun,
Now reveling in honeyed bower—
Behold the queenly rose that grew
Beside the wall in regal pride,
And whispered, “She is fairer far
Than aught for which bee erer sighed.
“Such royal grandeur in her mien!
Such grace in every flowing line!
A gem that‘s worthy of a king—3
God help me, but she shall be mine.”
With courtly flattery and praise
Her half reluctant ear he plied,
And talked of happiness and love
Until she closed her eyes and sighed.
So well his ready tongue portrayed
Love's more than sublunary bliss,
She yielded, half afraid, and gave
The wanton bee Love‘s nectar kiss.
Then with a mighty gush that threw
Réserve and haughtiness aside
She clasped him to her heart—but he,
The ingrats! stung her till she died!
