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FOUR SONGS.

BY B. C.

I.

SONG OF THE MARINER'S WIFE.

THY father is far away, child,

Thy father is on the sea,

The mate of the waves and the tempest wild:
Ah, boy, doth he think of thee?

He flattered and won my heart, dear,
And I made him the sire of thee;

Yet nothing could keep him (nor love nor fear)

Away from the faithless sea.

He was born on the roaring waves, boy,

Beneath an Atlantic sky,

And he vowed, whate’er happened (or grief or joy)

That he on the sea would die.

Yet, let's still sing a low sad song, child,

A prayer to calm the sea,—

A wish he may 'scape from the tempest wild,
And come back to my heart and thee!

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II.

THE HUSBAND'S SONG.

[For a Birth-day in November-Set to music by M. Moscheles.]

LET thy friends of summer sing
All that June or August bring!
Let them love the months of flowers,
Or the golden harvest hours!

I will in my heart remember
Chiefly dim and dark November.

What, though May in beauty blows,—
What, though June doth bear her rose,—
What, though August hath her corn,—
In this winter month was born

One who makes my heart remember,
And e'er love, the dim November.

Month of storms and sullen showers!
Thou hast brought to me bright hours,—

Music, sweeter than the spheres,

Thoughts that shine through happy tears!
Ever then must I remember,

Ever love my Love's November!

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IV.

GAIETE DU CŒUR.

THEY tell me that love is a folly;
They tell me that hope is vain,—
That life is all melancholy;

Yet, cousin, I ne'er complain.

I dance with the Spring when she calleth;
I laugh at the bright June day;
And when the wild Autumn falleth,
I look for the Christmas gay.

Time's evils for ever are flying

Away, like the swift-winged rack;
Life's shadows are daily dying;
Ah, why should we call them back?

The mind, it should gladden the seasons,
Should strengthen the heart in pain;
And so (and for other bright reasons)

Sweet cousin, I ne'er complain.

B. C.

LETTERS FROM HOME.

BY DELTA.

'Tis sweet, unutterably sweet,
Upon a far and foreign shore,
The pen-recorded thoughts to greet

Of those whom once 'twas bliss to meet,
But now are severed by the roar

Of mighty ocean, and the green

Of hill and plain outstretched between!

Then, like a lava tide, the past

Comes o'er the spirit,-by-past things, And half-forgotten thoughts, which cast Gleams, far too beautiful to last,

Of heavenly radiance from their wings; And lo! in hues more bright than truth, Start visioned forth the scenes of youth.

The sheep-clad hills, where boyhood strode The wild flowers down; the shady wood,

Of timid ring-doves the abode;

The winding river bright and broad;

The bleak moor's swampy solitude;

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