I cried, in my passionate longing:-- "Has the earth no Angel-friend Who will carry my love the message That my heart desires to send?" Then I heard a strain of music, So mighty, so pure, so clear, That my very sorrow was silent, And my heart stood still to hear. And I felt, in my soul's deep yearning, At last the sure answer stir:-- "The music will go up to Heaven, And carry my thought to her." It rose in harmonious rushing Of mingled voices and strings, And I tenderly laid my message On the Music's outspread wings. I heard it float farther and farther, In sound more perfect than speech; Farther than sight can follow, Farther than soul can reach. And I know that at last my message Has passed through the golden gate: So my heart is no longer restless, And I am content to wait. [Decoration] B. W. PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL). 1787-1874. _THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE._ SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. How many Summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine? Time, like the wingèd wind When 't bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind, To count the hours! Some weight of thought, though loth, On thee he leaves; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves; Some fears,--a soft regret For joys scarce known; Sweet looks we half forget;-- All else is flown! Ah! with what thankless heart I mourn and sing! Look, where our children start, Like sudden Spring! With tongues all sweet and low, Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe To thee and Time! [Decoration] _A PETITION TO TIME._ 1831. Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,--as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream! Humble voyagers are We, Husband, wife, and children three-- (One is lost,--an angel, fled To the azure overhead!) Touch us gently, Time! We 've not proud nor soaring wings: _Our_ ambition, _our_ content Lies in simple things. Humble voyagers are We, O'er Life's dim unsounded sea, Seeking only some calm clime:-- Touch us _gently_, gentle Time! _A BACCHANALIAN SONG._ SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS. Sing!--Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings? Ah, who is this lady fine? The VINE, boys, the VINE! The mother of mighty Wine. A roamer is she O'er wall and tree, And sometimes very good company. Drink!--Who drinks To her who blusheth and never thinks? Ah, who is this maid of thine? The GRAPE, boys, the GRAPE! O, never let her escape Until she be turned to Wine! For better is she Than vine can be, And very, very good company!