The Day-Dream.[1]

They both were husht, the voice, the chords,-- I heard but once that witching lay; And few the notes, and few the words. My spell-bound memory brought away;

Traces, remembered here and there, Like echoes of some broken strain;-- Links of a sweetness lost in air, That nothing now could join again.

Even these, too, ere the morning, fled; And, tho' the charm still lingered on, That o'er each sense her song had shed, The song itself was faded, gone;--

Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours, On summer days, ere youth had set; Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers, Tho' what they were we now forget.

In vain with hints from other strains I wooed this truant air to come-- As birds are taught on eastern plains To lure their wilder kindred home.

In vain:--the song that Sappho gave, In dying, to the mournful sea, Not muter slept beneath the wave Than this within my memory.

At length, one morning, as I lay In that half-waking mood when dreams Unwillingly at last gave way To the full truth of daylight's beams,

A face--the very face, methought, From which had breathed, as from a shrine Of song and soul, the notes I sought-- Came with its music close to mine;

And sung the long-lost measure o'er,-- Each note and word, with every tone And look, that lent it life before,-- All perfect, all again my own!

Like parted souls, when, mid the Blest They meet again, each widowed sound Thro' memory's realm had winged in quest Of its sweet mate, till all were found.

Nor even in waking did the clew, Thus strangely caught, escape again; For never lark its matins knew So well as now I knew this strain.

And oft when memory's wondrous spell Is talked of in our tranquil bower, I sing this lady's song, and tell The vision of that morning hour.

In these stanzas I have done little more than relate a fact in verse; and the lady, whose singing gave rise to this curious instance of the power of memory in sleep, is Mrs. Robert Arkwright.

SONG.

Where is the heart that would not give Years of drowsy days and nights, One little hour, like this, to live-- Full, to the brim, of life's delights? Look, look around, This fairy ground, With love-lights glittering o'er; While cups that shine With freight divine Go coasting round its shore.

Hope is the dupe of future hours, Memory lives in those gone by; Neither can see the moment's flowers Springing up fresh beneath the eye, Wouldst thou, or thou, Forego what's now, For all that Hope may say? No--Joy's reply, From every eye, Is, "Live we while we may,"

SONG OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY.

haud curat Hippoclides. ERASM. Adag.

To those we love we've drank tonight; But now attend and stare not, While I the ampler list recite Of those for whom WE CARE NOT.

For royal men, howe'er they frown, If on their fronts they bear not That noblest gem that decks a crown, The People's Love--WE CARE NOT.

For slavish men who bend beneath A despot yoke, yet dare not Pronounce the will whose very breath Would rend its links--WE CARE NOT.

For priestly men who covet sway And wealth, tho' they declare not; Who point, like finger-posts, the way They never go--WE CARE NOT.

For martial men who on their sword, Howe'er it conquers, wear not The pledges of a soldier's word, Redeemed and pure--WE CARE NOT.

For legal men who plead for wrong. And, tho' to lies they swear not, Are hardly better than the throng Of those who do--WE CARE NOT.

For courtly men who feed upon The land, like grubs, and spare not The smallest leaf where they can sun Their crawling limbs--WE CARE NOT.

For wealthy men who keep their mines In darkness hid, and share not The paltry ore with him who pines In honest want--WE CARE NOT.

For prudent men who hold the power Of Love aloof, and bare not Their hearts in any guardless hour To Beauty's shaft--WE CARE NOT.

For all, in short, on land or sea, In camp or court, who are not, Who never were, or e'er will be Good men and true--WE CARE NOT.

ANNE BOLEYN.