BAYLY.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. 1797-1839.

I'd be a butterfly born in a bower,

Where roses and lilies and violets meet.

Why don't the men propose, mamma?

Why don't the men propose? Why don't the men propose?

She wore a wreath of roses,

The night that first we met.

Friends depart, and memory takes them
To her caverns, pure and deep.

She wore a wreath.

Teach me to forget.

Tell me the tales that to me were so dear,
Long, long ago, long, long ago.

The rose that all are praising

Is not the rose for me.

O pilot! 't is a fearful night,
There's danger on the deep.

Long, long ago.

The rose that all are praising.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder; 1
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!

1 I find that absence still increases love.

The Pilot.

Isle of Beauty.

Charles Hopkins (1664-1699), To C. C.

Distance sometimes endears friendship, and absence sweeteneth it.

Howell, Familiar Letters, Book i. Sec. i. No. 6.

BAYLY.-BRAINARD. — PROCTER.

The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,

The holly branch shone on the old oak wall.

O, I have roamed o'er many lands,

And many friends I've met;

Not one fair scene or kindly smile

509

The Mistletoe Bough.

Can this fond heart forget. O, steer my bark to Erin's isle.

With the blue above and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I

go.

I never was on the dull, tame shore,

But I loved the great sea more and more.

Touch us gently, Time!

Let us glide adown thy stream

Gently,

Ibid.

Ibid.

as we sometimes glide

Through a quiet dream.

Touch us gently, Time!

H. S. VANDYK. 1798-1828.

O, leave the gay and festive scenes,
The halls of dazzling light.

The Light Guitar.

CHARLES DANCE. 1794-1863.

By the margin of fair Zurich's waters

Dwelt a youth, whose fond heart, night and day, For the fairest of fair Zurich's daughters,

In a dream of love melted away. Fair Zurich's Waters.

GEORGE LINLEY. 1798-1865.

Ever of thee I'm fondly dreaming,
Thy gentle voice my spirit can cheer.

Ever of thee.

Thou art gone from my gaze like a beautiful dream, And I seek thee in vain by the meadow and stream. Thou art gone.

Though lost to sight, to memory dear

Thou ever wilt remain ;

One only hope my heart can cheer,
The hope to meet again.

Though lost to sight.1

1 A song entitled "Though lost to sight, to memory dear, written by Ruthven Jenkyns in 1703," was published in London, 1880. The composer, in a private letter, acknowledged to have copied it from an American newspaper. There is no other authority for the origin of the song, and Ruthven Jenkyns, bearing another name, is now living in San Francisco.

PIERPONT.-HALIBURTON.— MOTHERWELL. 511

JOHN PIERPONT. 1785-1866.

A weapon that comes down as still
As snowflakes fall upon the sod;
But executes a freeman's will,

As lightning does the will of God;
And from its force, nor doors nor locks
Can shield you; - 't is the ballot-box.

A Word from a Petitioner.

THOMAS C. HALIBURTON.

1796-1865.

want you to see Peel, Stanley, Graham, Shiel, Russell, Macaulay, Old Joe, and so on. They are all upper-crust here.1 Sam Slick in England. Ch. xxiv.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 1797-1835.

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,

Through many a weary way;

But never, never can forget

The love of life's young day.

And we, with Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies.

Jeannie Morrison.

Ibid.

not upper ten

1 Those families, you know, are our upper-crust, thousand.-Cooper, The Ways of the Hour, Ch. vi. (1850). Sam Slick first appeared in a weekly paper of Nova Scotia, 1835.

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be, -
In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea,
Or in the wide desert where no life is found.

Sonnet. Silence.

We watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied;

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

I remember, I remember,

The fir-trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,

But now 't is little joy

To know I'm farther off from heaven

Than when I was a boy.

When he is forsaken,

Withered, and shaken,

What can an old man do but die?

And there is even a happiness

That makes the heart afraid.

The Death-Bed.

Ibid.

I remember, I remember.

There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in Melancholy.

Spring it is cheery.

Ode to Melancholy.

Ibid.