Though cold each form, their _love_, still warm,
From hearth and lattice glows:
Hearts kind and dear yet linger here,
And bid us to repose.
The skies are dark! No moonbeams mark
Or wall, or traveller's way:
O'er rock and wood thick storm-clouds brood,
And doubts our steps delay.
No beacon-light yet cheers the night:
How gloomy grows the hour!
Ah! there it shines, in lance-like lines,
Sharp through the misty shower.
Shine on, fair star, through storms, afar!
Still bless the nightly way!
Always the same, a vestal flame,
Love shall maintain thy ray.
THE FOURTH OF JULY.
It was the anniversary of our Glorious Fourth. The evil genius who
specially presides over the destinies of unoffending college boys put
it into the heads of five of us to celebrate the day by an excursion
by water to Nahant Beach. The morning was delightful,--the cool summer
air just freshening into a steady and favoring breeze, the sun
tempered in his ferocity by an occasional cloud above us, the sea calm
and pleasant--and all that sort of thing, you know--just what you want
on such occasions,--and we set sail from Braman's, resolved to have "a
jolly good time." I can't describe our passage down.
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