For the sun is shining, the swallows fly, With its cool splash! splash! down the dusty row; Where birds are chirping in summer shine; And I hear, though I cannot look, and she, Though she cannot hear, can the singers see,And the little soft fingers flutter in mine. Hath not the dear little hand a tongue, That I only hear as they pass around; And I am happy to keep God's sound. Why, I know her face, though I am blind,— Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined Round the pensive light of a brow of snow; And when I sit by my little one, And hold her hand and talk in the sun, And hear the music that haunts the place, I know she is raising her eyes to me, Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer, (I know the fancy is only vain), I should pray, just once, when the weather is fair, To see little Fanny in Langley Lane; A SONG OF THE CAMP. Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear The song of the birds, the hum of the street,— Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen, Ah! life is pleasant in Langley Lane! There is always something sweet to hear— Chirping of birds or patter of rain, And Fanny, my little one, always near. And though I am weakly and can't live long, And Fanny my darling is far from strong, And though we never can married be,— What then?-since we hold each other so dear, For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear, And the pleasure that only one can see? ROBERT BUCHANAN. 121 A Song of the Camp. "GIV IVE us a song !" the soldiers cried, When the heated guns of the camp allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff, There was a pause. A guardsman said: "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow." They lay along the battery's side, Below the smoking cannon; Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, They sang of love, and not of fame; Voice after voice caught up the song, Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,- Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, Beyond the darkening ocean burned And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars! And Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer, dumb and gory; Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest The loving are the daring. BAYARD TAYLOR. IN ITALY. In Italy. EAR Lillian, all I wished is won; DEAR I sit beneath Italia's sun, Where olive-orchards gleam and quiver Along the banks of Arno's river. Through laurel leaves the dim green light Falls on my forehead as I write; Rich is the soil with Fancy's gold; Rise thronging in my haunted vision, But as radiant sunsets close Thy words, in Memory's ear, outchime I see before thee fade away Their garlands of immortal bay, And turn from Petrarch's passion-glances Sad is the opal glow that fires The midnight of the cypress spires; 123 The fair Italian dream I chaced, Lies in the heart that mine hath won. BAYARD Taylor. MY Zara's Ear-Rings. Y ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropped into the well, And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell 'T was thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daugh ter: The well is deep-far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water; To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell. My ear-rings! my ear-rings !-they were pearls in silver set, That, when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget; That I ne'er to other tongues should list, nor smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale. When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well, Oh! what will Muça think of me?—I cannot, cannot tell! My ear-rings! my ear-rings !-he'll say they should have beer, Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear, Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere ; That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well: Thus will he think-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell. |