One balmy summer night, Mary, Just as the risen moon Had thrown aside her fleecy veil, We left the gay saloon; And in a green, sequestered spot, Beneath a drooping tree, Fond words were breathed, by you forgot, That still are dear to me, Mary, That still are dear to me. Oh, we were happy, then, Mary-- Time lingered on his way, To crowd a lifetime in a night, Whole ages in a day! If star and sun would set and rise Thus in our after years, The world would be a paradise, And not a vale of tears, Mary, And not a vale of tears. I live but in the past, Mary-- The glorious day of old! When love was hoarded in the heart, As misers hoard their gold: And often like a bridal train, To music soft and low, The by-gone moments cross my brain, In all their summer glow, Mary, In all their summer glow. These visions form and fade, Mary, As age comes stealing on, To bring the light and leave the shade Of days for ever gone! The poet's brow may wear at last The bays that round it fall; But love has rose-buds of the past Far dearer than them all, Mary, Far dearer than them all! The Beam of Devotion. I never could find a good reason Why sorrow unbidden should stay, And all the bright joys of life's season Be driven unheeded away. Our cares would wake no more emotion, Were we to our lot but resigned, Than pebbles flung into the ocean, That leave scarce a ripple behind. The world has a spirit of beauty, Which looks upon all for the best, And while it discharges its duty, To Providence leaves all the rest: That spirit's the beam of devotion, Which lights us through life to its close, And sets, like the sun in the ocean, More beautiful far than it rose. The Welcome and Farewell. To meet, and part, as we have met and parted, One moment cherished and the next forgot, To wear a smile when almost broken-hearted, I know full well is hapless woman's lot; Yet let me, to thy tenderness appealing, Avert this brief but melancholy doom-- Content that close beside the thorn of feeling, Grows memory, like a rose, in guarded bloom. Love's history, dearest, is a sad one ever, Yet often with a smile I've heard it told! Oh, there are records of the heart which never Are to the scrutinizing gaze unrolled! My eyes to thine may scarce again aspire-- Still in thy memory, dearest let me dwell, And hush, with this hope, the magnetic wire, Wild with our mingled welcome and farewell! 'Tis Now the Promised Hour. A Serenade.