Poetry.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 219, 20 November 1875, Page 3

Poetry.

THE MA.IDEN AND HER LIGHT GUITAR Ah ! play no more that light guitar. But sit and sing to me Here, where the dewy flowerets are, Where blithely hums the bee. The eve is waning, but I'd hear _ Thy voice before it dies ; For when the charm we love is near. Time like an angel flies. Each zephyr from the new-mown hay A dainty perfume brings ; So sweetly loitering on its way To where the brooklet sings. To thy dear voice I’ll listen long, Pleased with eacli silvery strain : My heart will open to thy song, Like roses to the rain. More sweet than music in the dells From birds when morning wakes. And dearer tones than golden bells Thy voice at even makes. Then lay thy light guitar aside ; Sing,—l shall only hear ; I’ll listen till each note has died— Lost like a fallen tear.

Sing, sing of love, the oldest theme, And next to Heaven the best, For in its light our pleasures seem To bloom in perfect rest. Then play no more that light guitar, But softly sing to me ; And I, still as yon lonely star, Will listen unto thee ! A MYSTERY. By John G. Whittier. The river, hemmed with leaning trees. Wound through its meadows green ; A low blue line of mountains showed The open pines between. One sharp, tall peak above them all Clear into sunlight sprang ; I saw the river of my dreams, The mountain that I sang. No clue of memory led me on, But well the ways I knew ; A feeling of familiar things With every footstep grew. Not otherwise above its crag Could lean the blasted pine ; Not otherwise the maple hold Aloft its red ensign. Bo up the long and shorn foot-hills The mountain road should creep ; So, green and low, the meadow fold Its red-haired kine asleep. The river wound as it should wind ; Their place the mountains took : The white torn fringes of their clouds Wore no unwonted look. Yet ne'er before that river’s rim Was pressed by feet of mine ; Never before mine eyes had crossed That broken mountain line. A presence strange at once and known Walked with me as my guide ; The skirts of some forgotten life Trailed noiseless at my side Was it a dim remembered dream? Or glimpse through icons old? The secret which the mountains kept The river never told. But from the vision ere it passed A tender hope I drew ; And, pleasant as a dawn of Spring, The thought within me grew That love would temper every change And soften all surprise ; And, misty with the dews of earth, The hills of heaven arise.