THE light of other days, my love, Is o'er my vision softly stealing; The music of thy bridal vows, Like harp-notes, up the past is pealing. But lip, nor eye, nor sunny brow, Nor cheek with witching dimples lighted, Were half so dear to me as now, When years have proved the love we plighted. Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear, My ever-winning Ellie Maylie, Love like thine To hearts like mine Is air and sunlight, Ellie Maylie. Down Youth's bright tide, our shallop light Went floating on through banks of flowers; But riper years brought clouds and night, For Life must have both _sun_ and _showers_ Well _might_ thy Willie brave the storm, And "breast the adverse billow gayly;" For what were Youth and Flowers to Love, Or all the world to Ellie Maylie Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear, My artless, clinging Ellie Maylie, Breath to being, Eye to seeing, Wert thou to me, my Ellie Maylie. Not where above a little grave The early summer buds are springing, Where willows in the sunlight wave, Not there--not there my heart is clinging; But _there_, amid those deathless flowers, That up from Heav'n's pure soil are springing, Where waits that angel-babe of ours, 'Tis there--'tis there my heart is clinging! Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear, My gentle, trusting Ellie Maylie, Lulled to rest On Jesus' breast, We'll meet in Heav'n, my Ellie Maylie! * * * * * THERE'S MUSIC. BY HORACE G. BOUGHMAN. THERE'S solemn music in the billows Of the mighty, restless sea; Lively music poured from brooklets, As they gambol in their glee. There's stirring music in the gale; Soft music in the breeze; Music sweet when winged minstrels Carol 'mid the verdant trees. There's awful music in the thunders; Lulling music in the rains; Music echoed from the forest, In a thousand living strains. There's silent music in the flowers, And in the planet's genial fires; Music grandest in the rivers, Where they tune their cat'ract lyres. There 's cheering music all around us, Thrilling music from above; And those magic tones should teach us Sweeter, nobler strains of love. * * * * * DREAM PICTURE. AN IMPROMPTU. BY MRS. A. F. LAW. BEHOLD, upon Life's swelling tide, A little boat doth gently glide! Its freight a Soul; Sin guides the helm, And steers for Pleasure's baseless realm: At prow, the gay-robed Tempter stands, Obscuring, with his jewelled hands, The Spirit's view; whilst shines afar Hope's radiant, but _deceiving_ star; For, see, _it fades_, e'en as we gazing stand, And leaves that bark a wreck upon the strand! * * * * * I WAS ROBBED OF MY SPIRIT'S LOVE.