Thine eyes are brown--thou hast thy father's eyes, But those, my darling, those were clear and blue, Ah, me! how sorrowfully that sea-bird cries, Cries for its mate, oh, tender bird and true; My, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep. Oh, of my truest love well worthy he, And near was I, ah, nearest to his heart; But ships are parted on the dreary sea Swept by the waves, forever swept apart-- Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep. And sometimes sad-eyed women sighing say, Sweet love is lost, all that remains is rest, So in their weakness they are lured to lay Their head upon some strong and loving breast. Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep. Our cabin stands upon the dreary sands, And it is sad to be alone, alone. But on my bosom thou hast lain thy hands, Near to me art thou, near, my precious one-- My, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep. The red light faded as she sung, A chill breeze rose and swept across the sea, She drew her cloak still closer round the child, And turned toward the cabin; As she went a faint glow glimmered In the east, and slowly rose-- The silver crescent of the moon. Another, paler light, than the warm sunset glow, But clear enough to guide her home. THE LAND OF LONG AGO. Now while the crimson light fades in the west, And twilight drops her purple shadows low-- We stand with Memory on the mountain's crest, That overlooks the land of Long Ago. Unmoved and still the form beside us stands, While mournful tears our heavy eyes o'erflow, As silently he lifts his shadowy hands, And points us to the land of Long Ago. It lies in beauty 'neath our sad eyes' range, Bathed in a richer light, a warmer glow; For fairer moons, and sunsets rare and strange, Illume the landscape of the Long Ago. We see its vales of peace, its hills of light Shine in the rosy air, ah! well we know-- That nevermore will bless our yearning sight, So fair and dear a land as Long Ago. We see the gleaming spires of those high halls We garnished with bright gems and precious show; No foot within the gilded doorway falls, Empty the rooms within the Long Ago. Troops of white doves still haunt the shining towers, And fold in blissful calm, their wings of snow; We bade them build their nests in brighter bowers, But still they linger in the Long Ago. There in its sunny bay stand stately ships, We freighted for fair lands where we would go; Still gleams our gold within their secret crypts, Becalmed beside the shore of Long Ago. Between that land and this of dread and doubt, The silent years have drifted trackless snow; Hiding the pathway where we wandered out, Forever from the land of Long Ago. LEMOINE. In the unquiet night, With all her beauty bright, She walketh my silent chamber to and fro; Not twice of the same mind, Sometimes unkind--unkind, And again no cooing dove hath a voice so sweet and low.