SONG OF THE IMPROVISATRICE. THERE'S balm on the air, and it drifts along Like the fragrant breath of a fairy throng; There's a spell of love on the restless deep, And the winds are still, and the waves asleep: And the fringed lids of the summer flowers Are folded down in their woodland bowers; But their lips are bright with a dewy flush Do they dream of love, through the twilight hush? 'Tis night, and the clouds, with their gorgeous dyes, Have melted away in the pearl-blue skies; 'Tis night, and the moon from her shadowy land Has girdled the sea with a silver band; Yet sorrowful strains o'er my bosom sweep, Alone, all alone! I am thinking now H. MARION STEPHENS. My soul was dark, and a wild unrest, Thou hast gone from me now, and I will not tell Of the wild, wild thoughts which my bosom swell; It would give too much to thy earnest heartLeaving too little for faith to impart! Thy spirit is with me thou canst not forget Thou'lt think of me ever with saddened regret ; Fate may have bereft me For thou art my being - it cannot control, - the life of my soul! 'Tis night on the mountain 'tis night on the sea: MY GRAVE. O! BURY me not in the sunless tomb, Where the bones of the scarce-remembered dead O, bury me not 'mid the ceaseless hum Of the city's wild commotion, Where the steps of a thoughtless crowd might come, In the eye of love should a tear-drop start, But bury me out in the wild, wild wood, Let my bed be made by the fond and true, In the forest home - in the wild wood home To my grave, like dear friends that love me, Let me rest 'mid the bloom of the pure and fair; I should know that the blossoms I loved were there. |