O would that she were here, Where frolic by the hours, Rife with the song of bee and bird, The perfume of the flowers,-- Where beams of peace and love, And radiant beauty's glow, Are pictured in the sky above, And in the lake below. O would that she were here-- The nymphs of this bright scene, With song, and dance, and revelry, Would crown BIANCA queen. WHITE LAKE.[L] BY A. B. STREET. Pure as their parent springs! how bright The silvery waters stretch away, Reposing in the pleasant light Of June's most lovely day. Curving around the eastern side, Rich meadows slope their banks, to meet With fringe of grass and fern, the tide Which sparkles at their feet. Here busy life attests that toil, With its quick talisman, has made Fields green and waving, from a soil Of rude and savage shade. While opposite the forests lie In giant shadow, black and deep, Filling with leaves the circling sky, And frowning in their sleep. Amid this scene of light and gloom, Nature with art links hand in hand, Thick woods beside soft rural bloom, As by a seer's command. Here waves the grain, here curls the smoke, The orchard bends; there, wilds, as dark As when the hermit waters woke Beneath the Indian's bark. Oft will the panther's sharp, shrill shriek With the herd's quiet lowings swell, The wolf's fierce howl terrific break Upon the sheepfold's bell. The ploughman sees the wind-winged deer Dart from his covert to the wave, And fearless in its mirror clear His branching antlers lave. Here, the green headlands seem to meet So near, a fairy bridge might cross; There, spreads the broad and limpid sheet In smooth, unruffled gloss. Arched by the thicket's screening leaves, A lilied harbour lurks below, Where on the sand each ripple weaves Its melting wreath of snow. Hark! like an organ's tone, the woods To the light wind in murmurs wake, The voice of the vast solitudes Is speaking to the lake. The fanning air-breath sweeps across On its broad path of sparkles now. Bends down the violet to the moss, Then melts upon my brow. SONG OF SPRING-TIME. BY C. F. HOFFMAN. Where dost thou loiter, Spring, While it behoveth Thee to cease wandering Where'er thou roveth, And to my lady bring The flowers she loveth. Come with thy melting skies Like her cheek blushing, Come with thy dewy eyes Where founts are gushing; Come where the wild bee hies When dawn is flushing. Lead her where by the brook The first blossom keepeth, Where, in the sheltered nook, The callow bud sleepeth; Or with a timid look Through its leaves peepeth. Lead her where on the spray, Blithely carolling, First birds their roundelay For my lady sing-- But keep, where'er she stray True-love blossoming.