* * * * * CALLORE. BY ALEXANDER A. IRVINE. Thou art ever fair to me— Fairer than the Autumn moon, Or a fountain, in its glee, Singing through the woods of June— Fairer than a streamlet bright Flowing on in shimmered light, Darkling under grassy sedge Fringing all the river’s edge, Rippling by the breezes fann’d, Sliding over silver sand, Through the meadow gayly ranging With an aspect ever changing, Yet with quiet depths below, And an even, constant flow, Pensive, musical and slow— Ever such thou art to me, Laughing, blue-eyed Callore! Oh! the stars have sybil tones! Singing by their golden thrones, Singing as they watching stand In their weird and silent land! But thy voice is sweeter far Than the music of the star! Melting on the air at even, With a mystic sound Flowing, flowing all around, ’Till the soul is raised to heaven Oh! at moments such as these I could kneel on bended knees, Ever kneel and hear thee sing, Silent, rapt and worshipping. As a bark upon the tide Moving on to symphony, With its dipping oars beside Keeping time melodiously, So thou movest on thy way, Ever graceful, ever gay. Or, perchance, in sportive band, With thy sisters hand in hand, Swinging all in mystic round— Thou wilt dance with gentle sound, A sound as that of fairy feet, Soft, harmonious and sweet, As woodland waterfalls at night Tinkling in the still starlight. How thine eyes with tears o’erflow At the troubled tale of wo— In those eyes I love to look, They to me are as a book. There I read without disguise, And a joy beyond control, All that in thine inner soul As upon an altar lies— Gazing thus, I feel as when Buried from the haunts of men, In some quiet shady nook, Looking downwards in the brook— I have heard the forest breeze Wake mysterious melodies, Bringing sounds of childish play From the solitudes away, Singing as a gleesome boy, Ravishing the soul with joy, Lifting it on pinions free— Silver-tonguéd Callore! Ever, ever thou art meek, With a mirthful soberness; None have ever heard thee speak Of thy passing loveliness— Thou dost joy to be away From the garish light of day; Brooding o’er each holy feeling Soft across thy bosom stealing; With thine eyelids downward bent, Musing in a meek content, Like a saint upon a shrine Wrapt in dreams of bliss divine! Surely, thou art not of earth— With the angels is thy birth— Thou hast come awhile, to be My guide to heaven, Callore! * * * * * THE SISTERS.