e yearnings thrill
As of old they were wont to do;
I know in truth when his face I see,
I shall fall at his shining feet,
Where'er it be and whoever is he,
In the light of his glances sweet.

I wait in vain for the sounds that rise
From the tread of his horse's hoof,
And still the mists hide his form away
And forever he stays aloof;
His shining face and his eyes so bright
In the shades of the distance hide,
And out of the night with the stars bedight
He hath never approached my side!

O, years, O, wonderful tide of years,
From the shadows of time set free
My king, my lover, my life, and bring
To my heart what is most of me!
Somewhere in pain do his yearnings grope
For the joys that my love would bring;
O, up the slope of his life-long hope,
Guide the feet of my royal king!

"SWEET FAIRIES FROM THE ISLES OF SONG."

Sweet fairies from the isles of song,
Bewitching choirs from music land,
The pleasures of your wondrous band
Once wooed me from the ways of wrong;
Once won my heart with fond caress
To sacred vales of summer glees,
Till carols fraught with lullabies
Filled all my soul with blessedness!

My yearnings miss those gentle sprites,
Whose laughing lips and angel eyes
And voices ever winsome-wise,
Bedewed my dreams with new delights;
For in the sad hours of my pain
I hold them as I hold the dead,
And trust that in the vales they tread,
My hands shall clasp their hands again.

From those glad meadows where they play
'Neath lovely sun and gentle star,
My longing soul has wandered far
On rocky path and thorny way;
I croon again the notes of song
In strains they taught me years ago,
And weep because my sorrows know
They have been absent for so long.

Return, O, laughing sprites of rest,
From gentle isles and peaceful seas,
And pour the balsamed wine of ease
Upon the anguish of my breast!
Till gladness in her raptures roll
Sweet strains of music, and I gain
Eternal joy for all the pain
That darkens o'er my weary soul!

STANZAS.

God bless the man who gave us rest
And him who taught us play,
For kindness reigned within his breast
To all our sorrow slay;
The weary heart, the fainting limb,
The soul that droops in woe,
Should most unceasing praise on him
In gratitude bestow.

He is the hero