The rose-buds are sleeping—but odors around Tell of hyacinths peeping from yon grassy mound; And the peach-bloom is blushing like cloudlets at even, When the sunset is flushing the calm summer heaven, And I dream as its leaflets float down at my side Of the rose-tinted cheek of my sweet sister Lide. The south wind is blowing, and up from the wood, Where the streamlet is flowing, in charmed solitude, Swells in low, liquid numbers the waterfall’s song, As its chanting wave slumbers, or dashes along; And the clear silvery tone of that murmuring tide Seems the love-laden voice of my sweet sister Lide. The soft stars are twinkling in beauty above, And the dew-drops besprinkling their blossoms of love, While a fresh, balmy breathing of spring-tide’s perfume O’er my free soul is wreathing that delicate bloom, Which glows o’er the beautiful feelings that glide Through the pure angel-heart of my sweet sister Lide. There’s a charm in the far gleam of waves on the sea, And a spell in the star-beam that whispers of thee; But as gay hours in fleeting new blushes of Spring To this wild bosom’s beating in loveliness bring, So its soft feelings deepen to glorious pride When it dreams of its angel, my sweet sister Lide. The world thinks us lonely—’tis true we’re alone, Not as twin-spirits only—our _hearts are but one_— With no parent, no brother, no glad, happy home, We’re the world to each other, wherever we roam, And my young life glides onward like spring’s sunny tide When I dwell with “mine own one”—my “love of a Lide!” _Memphis_, 1850. * * * * * SCENE ON THE OHIO. BY GEO. D. PRENTICE. IT is a glorious eve—the stream Without a murmur wanders by, And on its breast, with softened beam, The sleeping stars so sweetly lie, ’Twould seem as if the tempest’s plume Had swept through woods of tropic bloom, And scattered down their blossoms bright To sleep upon the waves to-night. And see—as hangs the moon aloft, Her beams come gushing through the air So mild, so beautifully soft, That wood and stream seem stirred with prayer, And the pure spirit, as it kneels At Nature’s holy altar, feels Religion’s self come floating by In every beam that cleaves the sky. There’s glory in each cloud and star, There’s beauty in each wave and tree, And gentle voices from afar Are borne like angel-minstrelsy; In such a spot, at such an hour, My spirit feels a spell of power, And all beneath, around above, Seems earthly bliss and heavenly love.