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BEAT

EAUTIFUL was the night. Behind the black

wall of the forest, Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon.

On the river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous

gleam of the moonlight, Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and

devious spirit. Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of

the garden Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers

and confessions Unto the night, as it went on its way, like a silent

Carthusian. Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shad

ows and night dews, Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the

magical moonlight

Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of

the oak trees, Passed she along the path to the edge of the measure

less prairie. Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies. Art thou so near unto me, and yet cannot behold thee? Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does

not reach me? Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the

prairie! Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the wood

lands around me! Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor, Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in

thy slumbers. Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite

numbers,

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Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the

heavens, Shone on the eyes of man, who had czased to marvel

and worship, Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of

that temple As if a hand had appeared and written upon them,

" Upharsin."

When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded

about thee?Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill

sounded Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neigh

boring thickets, Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into

silence. “ Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns

of darkness; And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, " To-morrow!"

-H. W. Longfellow.

And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the

fire-fies, Wandered alone, and she cried,

"O Gabriel! O my beloved'

A Portrait.

I

“One Name is Elizabeth."-Ben Jonson,
WILL paint her as I see her,

Quiet talk she liketh best,
Ten times have the lilies blown

In a bower of gentle looks,-
Since she looked upon the sun.

Watering flowers, or reading books.
And her face is lily-clear,

And her voice, it murmurs lowly,
Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty

As a silver stream may run,
To the law of its own beauty.

Which yet feels, you feel, the sun.

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