The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Vi Part 24

It died away--the palace changed, Dream-like, into a bower!

Around, the soft-eyed dun-deer ranged, Secure from hunter's power.

Wild thyme and eye-bright tinged the ground, With daisy, starry flower, While crimson flower-bells cl.u.s.ter'd round The rose-twined faery bower.

Therein "Undine," lovely sprite!

Sat gazing on sunrise, And sang of "morning, clear and bright"-- The tears came in her eyes: She look'd upon the lovely isle, And now up to the skies, Then in a silv'ry misty veil She vanish'd from mine eyes.

A music, as of forest trees Bent 'neath the storm-blast's sway, Rose swelling--dying in the breeze, A strange, wild lullaby.

The islet with its flowery turf Then waxed dim and gray; I look'd--no islet gemm'd the surf-- The dream had fled away.

FAIR AS A STAR OF LIGHT.

Fair as a star of light, Like diamond gleaming bright, Through darkness of the night, Is my love to me.

As bell of lily white, In streamlet mirror'd bright, All quiv'ring with delight, Is my love to me-- My love to me.

A flowing magic thrill Which floodeth heart and will With gushes musical, Is my love to me.

Bright as the tranced dream, Which flitteth in a gleam, Before morn's golden beam, Is my love to me-- My love to me.

Like living crystal well, In cool and shady dell, Unto the parch'd gazelle, Is my love to me.

And dearer than things fair, However rich and rare, In earth, or sea, or air, Is my love to me-- My love to me.

NATURE MUSICAL.

There is music in the storm, love, When the tempest rages high; It whispers in the summer breeze A soft, sweet lullaby.

There is music in the night, When the joyous nightingale, Clear warbling, filleth with his song The hillside and the vale.

Then sing, sing, sing, For music breathes in everything.

There is music by the sh.o.r.e, love, When foaming billows dash; It echoes in the thunder peal, When vivid lightnings flash.

There is music by the sh.o.r.e, In the stilly noon of night, When the murmurs of the ocean fade In the clear moonlight.

There is music in the soul, love, When it hears the gushing swell, Which, like a dream intensely soft, Peals from the lily-bell.

There is music--music deep In the soul that looks on high, When myriad sparkling stars sing out Their pure sphere harmony.

There is music in the glance, love, Which speaketh from the heart, Of a sympathy in souls That never more would part.

There is music in the note Of the cooing turtle-dove; There is music in the voice Of dear ones whom we love.

There is music everywhere, love, To the pure of spirit given; And sweetest music heard on earth But whispers that of heaven.

Oh, all is music there-- 'Tis the language of the sky-- Sweet hallelujahs there resound Eternal harmony.

Then sing, sing, sing, For music breathes in everything.

ISABELLA CRAIG.

Isabella Craig is a native of Edinburgh, where she has continued to reside. Her educational advantages were limited. To the columns of the _Scotsman_ newspaper she has for several years contributed verses. In 1856 she published a collection of her poetical compositions, in a duodecimo volume, with the t.i.tle, "Poems by Isa." She contributes to the periodicals.

OUR HELEN.

Is our Helen very fair?

If you only knew her You would doubt it not, howe'er Stranger eyes may view her.

We who see her day by day Through our household moving, Whether she be fair or nay Cannot see for loving.

O'er our gentle Helen's face No rich hues are bright'ning, And no smiles of feigned grace From her lips are light'ning; She hath quiet, smiling eyes, Fair hair simply braided, All as mild as evening skies Ere sunlight hath faded.

Our kind, thoughtful Helen loves Our approving praises, But her eye that never roves Shrinks from other gazes.

She, so late within her home But a child caressing, Now a woman hath become, Ministering, blessing.

All her duty, all her bliss, In her home she findeth, Nor too narrow deemeth this-- Lowly things she mindeth; Yet when deeper cares distress, She is our adviser; Reason's rules she needeth less, For her heart is wiser.

For the sorrows of the poor Her kind spirit bleedeth, And, because so good and pure, For the erring pleadeth.

Is our Helen very fair?

If you only knew her You would doubt it not, howe'er Stranger eyes may view her.

GOING OUT AND COMING IN.

In that home was joy and sorrow Where an infant first drew breath, While an aged sire was drawing Near unto the gate of death.

His feeble pulse was failing, And his eye was growing dim; He was standing on the threshold When they brought the babe to him.

While to murmur forth a blessing On the little one he tried, In his trembling arms he raised it, Press'd it to his lips and died.

An awful darkness resteth On the path they both begin, Who thus met upon the threshold, Going out and coming in.

Going out unto the triumph, Coming in unto the fight-- Coming in unto the darkness, Going out unto the light; Although the shadow deepen'd In the moment of eclipse, When he pa.s.s'd through the dread portal With the blessing on his lips.

And to him who bravely conquers, As he conquer'd in the strife, Life is but the way of dying-- Death is but the gate of life; Yet awful darkness resteth On the path we all begin, Where we meet upon the threshold, Going out and coming in.

MY MARY AN' ME.