THERE be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming: And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean. WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING So, we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY SHE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes, and starry skies: And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which Heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace, Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent. A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! _B. W. PROCTER_ KING DEATH KING DEATH was a rare old fellow, He sat where no sun could shine, And he lifted his hand so yellow, And poured out his coal-black wine! Hurrah, for the coal-black wine! There came to him many a maiden Whose eyes had forgot to shine, And widows with grief o'erladen, For a draught of his coal-black wine. Hurrah, for the coal-black wine! The scholar left all his learning, The poet his fancied woes, And the beauty her bloom returning, Like life to the fading rose. Hurrah, for the coal-black wine! All came to the rare old fellow, Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine, And he gave them his hand so yellow, And pledged them in Death's black wine. Hurrah, for the coal-black wine! SONG FOR TWILIGHT HIDE me, O twilight air, Hide me from thought, from care, From all things foul or fair, Until to-morrow! To-night I strive no more; No more my soul shall soar: Come, sleep, and shut the door 'Gainst pain and sorrow! If I must see through dreams, Be mine Elysian gleams, Be mine by morning streams To watch and wander; So may my spirit cast (Serpent-like) off the past, And my free soul at last Have leave to ponder. And shouldst thou 'scape control, Ponder on love, sweet soul; On joy, the end and goal Of all endeavour: But if earth's pains will rise, (As damps will seek the skies,) Then, night, seal thou mine eyes, In sleep for ever. _CHARLES WOLFE_