DANCE LIGHT!

And now on the green the glad groups are seen,
Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing;
And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil:
Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing.

Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,

And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in motion; With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground; The maids move around just like swans on the ocean: Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe's,

THE PHANTOM.

Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing.

Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground, No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing.

Sweet Kate who could view your bright eyes of deep blue,
Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly,
Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form,
Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly?
Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,
Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love;
The sight leaves his eye, as he cries with a sigh,

"Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!"

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER.

THE PHANTOM.

AGAIN I sit within the mansion,

In the old familiar seat;

And shade and sunshine chase each other

O'er the carpet at my feet.

But the sweetbrier's arms have wrestled upwards,

In the summers that are past,

And the willow trails its branches lower

Than when I saw them last.

They strive to shut the sunshine wholly
From out the haunted room,

THE PHANTOM.

To fill the house, that once was joyful,
With silence and with gloom.

And many kind, remembered faces
Within the doorway come:
Voices, that wake the sweeter music
Of one that now is dumb.

They sing, in tones as glad as ever,
The songs she loved to hear;

They braid the rose in summer garlands,
Whose flowers to her were dear.

And still, her footsteps in the passage,
Her blushes at the door,

Her timid words of maiden welcome,
Come back to me once more;

And all forgetful of my sorrow,
Unmindful of my pain,

I think she has but newly left me,
And soon will come again.

She stays without, perchance, a moment,
To dress her dark brown hair;
I hear the rustle of her garments,
Her light step on the stair!

O, fluttering heart, control thy tumult,
Lest eyes profane should see

THE MORNING-GLORY.

My cheeks betray the rush of rapture
Her coming brings to me!

She tarries long: but lo, a whisper
Beyond the open door!

And, gliding through the quiet sunshine,
A shadow on the floor!

Ah! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me,
The vine whose shadow strays;

And my patient heart must still await her,
Nor chide her long delays.

But my heart grows sick with weary waiting,

As many a time before:

Her foot is ever at the threshold,

Yet never passes o'er.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

THE MORNING-GLORY.

WE wreathed about our darling's head

The morning-glory bright;

Her little face looked out beneath,

So full of life and light,

So lit as with a sunrise,

That we could only say
"She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are they."

THE MORNING-GLORY.

So always, from that happy time,
We called her by their name;
And very fitting did it seem,

For sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle bars she smiled
To catch the first faint ray,

As from the trellis smiles the flower
And opens to the day.

But not so beautiful they rear
Their airy cups of blue,

As turned her sweet eyes to the light,
Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;
And not so close their tendrils fine
Round their supports are thrown,
As those dear arms whose outstretched plea
Clasped all hearts to her own.

We used to think how she had come,
Even as comes the flower:

The last and perfect added gift

To crown Love's morning hour;
And how in her was imaged forth
The love we could not say,
As on the little dew-drops round
Shines back the heart of day.

We never could have thought, O God!
That she must wither up,

Almost before a day was flown,

Like the morning-glory's cup;