For the sun is shining, the swallows fly,
The bees and the blue-flies murmur low,
And I hear the water-cart go by,

With its cool splash! splash! down the dusty row;
And the little one close at my side perceives
Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves,

Where birds are chirping in summer shine; And I hear, though I cannot look, and she, Though she cannot hear, can the singers see,And the little soft fingers flutter in mine.

Hath not the dear little hand a tongue,

When it stirs on my palm for the love of me?
Do I not know she is pretty and young?
Hath not my soul an eye to see?

'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir,
To wonder how things appear to her,

That I only hear as they pass around;
And as long as we sit in the music and light,
She is happy to keep God's sight,

And I am happy to keep God's sound.

Why, I know her face, though I am blind,—
I made it of music long ago:

Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined

Round the pensive light of a brow of snow; And when I sit by my little one,

And hold her hand and talk in the sun,

And hear the music that haunts the place,

I know she is raising her eyes to me,

And guessing how gentle my voice must be,
And seeing the music upon my face.

Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer, (I know the fancy is only vain),

I should pray, just once, when the weather is fair,
To see little Fanny in Langley Lane:

A SONG OF THE CAMP.

Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear
The voice of the friend she holds so dear,

The song of the birds, the hum of the street,-
It is better to be as we have been-

Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen,
To make God's heaven more strange and sweet.

Ah! life is pleasant in Langley Lane!

There is always something sweet to hearChirping of birds or patter of rain,

And Fanny, my little one, always near. And though I am weakly and can't live long, And Fanny my darling is far from strong,

And though we never can married be,— What then?-since we hold each other so dear, For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear, And the pleasure that only one can see?

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

A Song of the Camp.
"GIVE us a song !" the soldiers cried,

The outer trenches guarding,
When the heated guns of the camp allied
Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
Lay grim and threatening under;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause.

A guardsman said:

66
"We storm the forts to-morrow;
Sing while we may, another day
Will bring enough of sorrow."

139

They lay along the battery's side,

Below the smoking cannon;

Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame ;
Forgot was Britain's glory;
Each heart recalled a different name,

But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,--
Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But, as the song grew louder,
Something upon the soldier's cheek
Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,

With scream of shot and burst of shell,
And bellowing of the mortars!

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest

Your truth and valor wearing; The bravest are the tenderest,

The loving are the daring.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

IN ITALY.

In Italy.

EAR Lillian, all I wished is won;

DE

I sit beneath Italia's sun,

Where olive-orchards gleam and quiver

Along the banks of Arno's river.

Through laurel leaves the dim green light

Falls on my forehead as I write;

And the sweet chimes of vesper ringing
Blend with the contadina's singing.

Rich is the soil with Fancy's gold;
The stirring memories of old

Rise thronging in my haunted vision,
And wake my spirit's young ambition.

But as the radiant sunsets close
`Above Val d'Arno's bowers of rose,
My soul forgets the olden glory,
And deems our love a dearer story.

Thy words, in Memory's ear, outchime
The music of the Tuscan rhyme;

Thou standest here-the gentle-hearted—
Amid the shades of bards departed.

I see before thee fade away

Their garlands of immortal bay,

And turn from Petrarch's passion-glances
To my own dearer heart-romances.

Sad is the opal glow that fires

The midnight of the cypress spires;
And cold the scented wind that closes
The heart of bright Etruscan roses.

141

The fair Italian dream I chased,
A single thought of thee effaced;
For the true land of song and sun

Lies in the heart that mine hath won.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

MY

Zara's Ear-Rings.

Year-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropped into the well,

And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell—

'T was thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daugh

ter:

The well is deep-far down they lie, beneath the cold blue

water;

To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell.

My ear-rings! my ear-rings !—they were pearls in silver set, That, when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget;

That I ne'er to other tongues should list, nor smile on other's

tale,

But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings

pale.

When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them

in the well,

Oh! what will Muça think of me ?—I cannot, cannot tell!

My ear-rings! my ear-rings!-he'll say they should have

beer:,

Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear, Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere ; That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting

well:

Thus will he think-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell,