A LOVER'S HOPE.

ARTHUR H. SPEED ye, warm hours, along th' appointed path,

HALLAM.

Speed, though ye bring but pain, slow pain to me;

I will not much bemoan your heavy wrath,

So ye will make my lady glad and free,

What is't that I must here confinèd be,

If she may roam the summer's sweets among,

See the full cuppèd flower, the laden tree,

Hear from deep groves the thousand voiced song?

Sometimes in that still chamber will she sit

Trim ranged with books, and cool with dusky blinds,

That keep the moon out, there as seemèd fit,

To sing, or play, or read,-what sweet hope finds

Way to my heart? perchance some verse of mine—

Oh happy I speed on, ye hours divine!

WILLIAM CALDWELL ROSCOE.

1823-1859.

TO MY MOTHER.

As winter in some mild autumnal days,
Breathes such an air as youngest spring discloses,
So age in thee renews an infant's grace,

And clothes thy cheek in soft November roses.
Time hath made friends with Beauty in thy face,
And since the wheeling Fates must be obeyed,
White rime upon thy gracious head he lays,
Put whispers gently not to be afraid;

And tenderly, like one that leads the blind,

He soothes thy lingering footsteps to the gate,
While that great Angel, who there keeps his state,
Smiles to behold with what slow feet he moves.

Move slower, gentlier yet, O Time! or find

A way to fix her here, bound by our filial loves.

WILLIAM CALDWELL

ROSCOE.

1823-1859.

A LOVER'S FEAR.

LIKE a musician that with flying finger

Startles the voice of some new instrument,

And though he know that in one string are blent
All its extremes of sound, yet still doth linger
Among the lighter threads, fearing to start

The deep soul of that one melodious wire,

Lest it, unanswering, dash his high desire,
And spoil the hopes of his expectant heart ;—
Thus, with my mistress oft conversing, I

Stir every lighter theme with careless voice,
Gathering sweet music and celestial joys

From the harmonious soul o'er which I fly;
Yet o'er the one deep master-chord I hover,

And dare not stoop, fearing to tell-I love her.

WILLIAM CALDWELL ROSCOE.

1823-1859.

TO A FRIEND.

SAD Soul, whom God resuming what He gave,
Medicines with bitter anguish of the tomb,
Cease to oppress the portals of the grave,
And strain thy aching sight across the gloom.
The surged Atlantic's winter-beaten wave

Shall sooner pierce the purpose of the wind

Than thy storm-tossed and heavy-swelling mind

Grasp the full import of His means to save.

Through the dark night lie still; God's faithful grace

Lies hid, like morning, underneath the sea,

Let thy slow hours roll, like these weary stars

Down to the level ocean patiently;

Till His loved hand shall touch the Eastern bars,

And His full glory shine upon thy face.

WILLIAM CALDWELL ROSCOE. 1823-1859.

DAYBREAK IN FEBRUARY.

OVER the ground white snow, and in the air

Silence. The stars, like lamps soon to expire,

Gleam tremblingly; serene and heavenly fair,

The eastern hanging crescent climbeth higher.
See, purple on the azure softly steals,

And Morning, faintly touched with quivering fire,

Leans on the frosty summits of the hills,

Like a young girl over her hoary sire.

Oh, such a dawning over me has come,
The daybreak of thy purity and love ;-
The sadness of the never-satiate tomb
Thy countenance hath power to remove;
And from the sepulchre of Hope thy palm

Can roll the stone, and raise her bright and calm..