To The Evening Star.

The woods waved welcome in the breeze, When, many years ago, Lured by the songs of birds and bees, I sought the dell below; And there, in that secluded spot, Where silver streamlets roved, Twined the green ivy round the cot Of her I fondly loved.

In dreams still near that porch I stand To listen to her vow! Still feel the pressure of her hand Upon my burning brow! And here, as in the days gone by, With joy I meet her yet, And mark the love-light of her eyes, Fringed with its lash of jet.

My Mary's voice!—It is the hour She promised to be here: Taught by love's mysterious power, I know that she is near. I hear the melody she sings Beneath our happy dome, And now the woodland cheerly rings With Mary's welcome home.

My Mary's voice!—I hear it thrill In rapture on the gale, As she comes gliding down the hill To meet me in the vale. In all the world, on land or sea, Where'er I chance to roam, No music is so sweet to me As Mary's welcome home.