TWILIGHT deepens upon the lea, And shadows come dancing in play with me; Little brown birds have hurried away To their nests in the tree-tops old and gray, While here at my window I lean and gaze Earnestly into the misty haze, Watching the coming of one sweet star Which thou'rt now seeking from me afar. Absent and dearest, my spirit's life Dost ever forget, 'mid the din and strife, That one fond heart o'er the line of hills Sighs for thy presence, yet bounds and fills With measureless bliss when this sweet hour Gathers around with its magic power. Visions of brightness come and go Like the falling and melting of winter snow; But one, a presence like thine remains, And winds my heart in its golden chains. Then, sweet as the music in Assam's bowers, When winds go singing among the flowers, Or like the leaves of the lotus-tree That touch each other in melody, So sweetly a voice creeps into my soul To woo my senses from earth's control, And point to a world of rarer joy Where pleasures are found that never cloy, Where bliss supernal forever reigns, And rapture gushes in seraph strains. Oh, earth is darkly beautiful now, With her garland of flowers upon her brow; And the stars have come with their golden eyes To light up the portals of Paradise; The visions of sweetness have left my heart, But the voice of music will never depart; And when I look to the shining skies, Where the bright pavilions of glory rise, I'll think of the gardens of matchless flowers, Where angels walk 'mid the wingless hours; And, dearest, I'll think we'll sometimes go The peace and rapture of heaven to know. But, hark! the sound of ringing bells Comes on the wind, and softly tells Midnight—and earth doth sweetly rest, With her beautiful children on her breast. SONNET.—FLOWERS. BY WM. ALEXANDER. WINTER scarce o'er, as messenger of Spring, Walks forth bright Snowdrop, clad in green and white, Which simple beauties every eye delight, Till Violet scents the gale and Bluebirds sing; Come now the Windflower and the Tulip tall, And Naiad Lily of the lowly vale, The lover's flower, which is true passion pale; Up, next, Narcissus springs, more fair than all, Reflecting in the brook, that purls anigh, Her image, and, like Echo, hastes to die; Then the sweet lady Rose, at Zephyr's call, Like nymph, comes forth to show her glowing breast, While Flora holds her proudest carnival, And yields the palm to her, as queen of all the rest. MY TULIPS. BY H. S. D.