Full many a thankless child has been, But never one like mine; Her meat was served on plates of gold, Her drink was rosy wine; But now she 'll share the robin's food, And sup the common rill, Before her feet will turn again To meet her father's will! [Decoration] _SONG._ I. The stars are with the voyager Wherever he may sail; The moon is constant to her time; The sun will never fail; But follow, follow round the world, The green earth and the sea; So love is with the lover's heart, Wherever he may be. II. Wherever he may be, the stars Must daily lose their light; The moon will veil her in the shade; The sun will set at night. The sun may set, but constant love Will shine when he 's away; So that dull night is never night, And day is brighter day. [Decoration] RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (LORD HOUGHTON). 1809-1885. _THE BROOKSIDE._ I wandered by the brook-side, I wandered by the mill,-- I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beside the elm-tree, I watched the long, long, shade, And as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word,-- But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not,--no, he came not,-- The night came on alone,-- The little stars sat one by one, Each on his golden throne; The evening air passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred,-- But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind,-- A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer--nearer,-- We did not speak one word, For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. [Illustration: Full-page Plate] _THE VENETIAN SERENADE._ When along the light ripple the far serenade Has accosted the ear of each passionate maid, She may open the window that looks on the stream,-- She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream; Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom, "I am coming--Stalì[B]--but you know not for whom! Stalì--not for whom!" Now the tones become clearer,--you hear more and more How the water divided returns on the oar,-- Does the prow of the Gondola strike on the stair? Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare? Oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view, "I am passing--Premì--but I stay not for you! Premì--not for you!"