And yet, if haply, when thou ’rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn, Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return ? Return ! alas ! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do, When thcu, who wert his all of joy, hast vanish'd from his view ? When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears, Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage, ap pears. with foot alone, Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on! And sitting down by the green well, I'll pause and sadly think, 'Twas here he bow'd his glossy neck when last I saw him drink! When last I saw thee drink! Away! the fever'd dream is o'er; I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more! They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong; They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? who said that thou wert sold ? 'Tis false—'tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold. Thus, thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains, Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains! MARY HOWITT, SUMMER SONG OF THE STRAWBERRY GIRL. It is summer! it is summer! how beautiful looks! There is sunshine on the old gray hills, and sunshine on the brooks ; A singing bird on every bough, soft perfumes on the air, A happy smile on each young lip, and gladness everywhere. Oh, is it not a pleasant thing to wander through the woods, To look upon the painted flowers, and watch the opening buds; Or, seated in the deep cool shade at some tall ash-tree's root, To fill my little basket with the sweet and scented fruit ? They tell me that my father's poor—that is no grief to me, When such a blue and brilliant sky my upturn'd eye can see; They tell me, too, that richer girls can sport with toy and gem; It may be so—and yet, methinks, I do not envy them. When forth I go upon my way, a thousand toys are mine, The cluster of dark violets, the wreaths of the wild vine; My jewels are the primrose pale, the bind-weed, and the rose; And show me any courtly gem more beautiful than those. And then the fruit, the glowing fruit, how sweet the scent it breathes ! I love to see its crimson cheek rest on the bright green leaves ! Summer's own gift of luxury, in which the poor may share, The wild-wood fruit my eager eye is seeking everywhere. Oh, summer is a pleasant time, with all its svunds and sightsIts dewy mornings, balmy eves, and tranquil calm delights. I sigh when first I see the leaves fall yellow on the plain; And all the winter long I sing—Sweet summer, come again! BIRDS IN SUMMER. How pleasant the life of a bird must be, How pleasant the life of a bird must be, To pass through the bowers of the silvery cloud, How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Then wheeling about, with its mates at play, child ! What a joy it must be, like a living breeze, ELIZA COOK, SUNSHINE. Who loveth not the sunshine ? oh! who loveth not the bright And blessed mercy of His smile, who said, “ Let there be light ?" Who lifteth not his face to meet the rich and glowing beam? Who dwelleth not with miser eyes upon such golden stream? Let those who will accord their song to hail the revel blaze That only comes where feasting reigns and courtly gallants gaze ! But the sweet and merry sunshine is a braver theme to sing, For it kindles round the peasant while it bursts above the king. We hear young voices round us now swell loud in eager joy, out to play, And scattered them, like busy bees, all humming in our way. We see old age and poverty forsake the fireside chair, warm'd cup, No bed of down to nestle in, no furs to wrap him up. But now he loiters ’mid the crowd, and leans upon his staff, He gossips with his lowly friends, and joins the children's laugh. 'Tis the bright and merry sunshine that has led the old man out, To hear once more the Babel roar, and wander round about. There's a sunshine that is brighter, that is warmer e'en than this; That spreadeth round a stronger gleam, and sheds a deeper bliss; That gilds whate'er it touches with a lustre all its own, |