ft when swallows fly,
And Love at last,
When hopes which filled its heaven droop and die,
Is past.

_THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES._

The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.

[Decoration]

[Illustration: Full-page Plate]

_A LOST VOICE._

A thousand voices fill my ears
All day until the light grows pale;
But silence falls when night-time nears,
And where art thou, sweet nightingale?

Was that thine echo, faint and far?
Nay, all is hushed as heaven above;
In earth no voice, in heaven no star,
And in my heart no dream of love.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

_SERENADE._

Sleep sweet, beloved one, sleep sweet!
Without here night is growing,
The dead leaf falls, the dark boughs meet,
And a chill wind is blowing.
Strange shapes are stirring in the night,
To the deep breezes wailing,
And slow, with wistful gleams of light,
The storm-tost moon is sailing.

Sleep sweet, beloved one, sleep sweet!
Fold thy white hands, my blossom!
Thy warm limbs in thy lily sheet,
Thy hands upon thy bosom.
Though evil thoughts may walk the dark,
Not one shall near thy chamber;
But shapes divine shall pause to mark,
Singing to lutes of amber.

Sleep sweet, beloved one, sleep sweet!
Though, on thy bosom creeping,
Strange hands are laid, to feel the beat
Of thy soft heart in sleeping.
The brother angels, Sleep and Death,
Stop by thy couch and eye thee;
And Sleep stoops down to drink thy breath,
While Death goes softly by thee!

[Decoration]

_SONG._

FROM "LOVE IN WINTER."

"O Love is like the roses,
And every rose shall fall,
For sure as summer closes
They perish one and all.
Then love, while leaves are on the tree,
And birds sing in the bowers:
When winter comes, too late 't will be
To pluck the happy flowers."

"O Love is like the roses,
Love comes, and Love must flee!
Before the summer closes
Love's rapture and Love's glee!"

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

MORTIMER COLLINS.

1827-1876.

_TO F. C._

20th February 1875.

Fast falls the snow, O lady mine,
Sprinklin