The fountains serenade the flowers, Upon their silver lute-- And, nestled in their leafy bowers, The forest-birds are mute: The bright and glittering hosts above Unbar their golden gates, While Nature holds her court of love, And for her client waits. Then, lady, wake--in beauty rise! 'Tis now the promised hour, When torches kindle in the skies To light thee to thy bower. The day we dedicate to care-- To love the witching night; For all that's beautiful and fair In hours like these unite. E'en thus the sweets to flowerets given-- The moonlight on the tree-- And all the bliss of earth and heaven-- Are mingled, love, in thee. Then, lady, wake--in beauty rise! 'Tis now the promised hour, When torches kindle in the skies To light thee to thy bower! The Songs of Home. Oh, sing once more those dear, familiar lays, Whose gliding measure every bosom thrills, And takes my heart back to the happy days When first I sang them on my native hills! With the fresh feelings of the olden times, I hear them now upon a foreign shore-- The simple music and the artless rhymes! Oh, sing those dear, familiar lays once more, Those cheerful lays of other days-- Oh, sing those cheerful lays once more! Oh, sing once more those joy-provoking strains, Which, half forgotten, in my memory dwell; They send the life-blood bounding thro' my veins, And linger round me like a fairy spell. The songs of home are to the human heart Far dearer than the notes that song-birds pour, And of our very nature form a part: Then sing those dear, familiar lays once more! Those cheerful lays of other days-- Oh, sing those cheerful lays once more! Masonic Hymn. Our Order, like the ark of yore, Upon the raging sea was tossed; Secure amid the billow's roar, It moved, and nothing has been lost. When elements discordant seek To wreck what God in mercy saves, The struggle is as vain and weak As that of the retiring waves. The Power who bade the waters cease, The Pilot of the Pilgrim Band, He gave the gentle dove of peace The branch she bore them from the land. In him alone we put our trust, With heart and hand and one accord, Ascribing, with the true and just, All "holiness unto the Lord." The Dismissed. "I suppose she was right in rejecting my suit, But why did she kick me down stairs?" Halleck's "Discarded." The wing of my spirit is broken, My day-star of hope has declined; For a month not a word have I spoken That's either polite or refined. My mind's like the sky in bad weather, When mist-clouds around us are curled: And, viewing myself altogether, I'm the veriest wretch in the world! I wander about like a vagrant-- I spend half my time in the street; My conduct's improper and flagrant, For I quarrel with all that I meet. My dress, too, is wholly neglected, My hat I pull over my brow, And I look like a fellow suspected Of wishing to kick up a row.