Sweet one, fond heart, thine eyes are bright, And full of stars as is the heaven, Pure pleiads of the soul, whose light From deepest founts of Truth is given-- Oh let them shine upon my night, And though my life be tempest-driven, The leaping billows of its sea Shall clasp a thousand forms of thee. Thy soul in trembling tones conveyed Melts like the morning song of birds, Or like a mellow paen played By angels on celestial chords;-- And oh, thy lips were only made For dropping love's delicious words:-- Then pour thy spirit into mine Until my soul be drowned with thine. The pilgrim of the desert plain Not more desires the spring denied, Not more the vexed and midnight main Calls for the mistress of its tide, Not more the burning earth for rain, Than I for thee, my own _soul's_ bride-- Then pour, oh pour upon my heart The love that never shall depart! THE LABORER'S COMPANIONS. BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. While pleasant care my yielding soil receives, Other delights the open soul may find; On the high bough the daring hang-bird weaves Her cunning cradle, rocking in the wind; The arrowy swallow builds, beneath the eves, Her clay-walled grotto, with soft feathers lined; The dull-red robin, under sheltering leaves, Her bowl-like nest to sturdy limbs doth bind; And many songsters, worth a name in song, Plain, _homely_ birds my boy-love sanctified, On hedge and tree and grassy bog, prolong Sweet loves and cares, in carols sweetly plied; In such dear strains their simple natures gush That through my heart at once all tear-blest memories rush. THE ENCHANTED KNIGHT. BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. In the solemn night, when the soul receives The dreams it has sighed for long, I mused o'er the charmed, romantic leaves Of a book of German Song. From stately towers, I saw the lords Ride out to the feudal fray; I heard the ring of meeting swords And the Minnesinger's lay! And, gliding ghost-like through my dream, Went the Erl-king, with a moan, Where the wizard willow o'erhung the stream, And the spectral moonlight shone. I followed the hero's path, who rode In harness and helmet bright, Through a wood where hostile elves abode, In the glimmering noon of night! Banner and bugle's call had died Amid the shadows far, And a misty stream, from the mountain-side, Dropped like a silver star. Thirsting and flushed, from the steed he leapt And quaffed from his helm unbound; Then a mystic trance o'er his spirit crept, And he sank to the elfin ground. He slept in the ceaseless midnight cold, By the faery spell possessed, His head sunk down, and his gray beard rolled On the rust of his armed breast!