To The Evening Star.

The woods waved welcome in the breeze,

When, many years ago,

Lured by the songs of birds and bees,

I sought the dell below;

And there, in that secluded spot,

Where silver streamlets roved,

Twined the green ivy round the cot

Of her I fondly loved.

In dreams still near that porch I stand

To listen to her vow!

Still feel the pressure of her hand

Upon my burning brow!

And here, as in the days gone by,

With joy I meet her yet,

And mark the love-light of her eyes,

Fringed with its lash of jet.

My Mary's voice!— It is the hour

She promised to be here:

Taught by love's mysterious power,

I know that she is near.

I hear the melody she sings

Beneath our happy dome,

And now the woodland cheerly rings

With Mary's welcome home.

My Mary's voice!— I hear it thrill

In rapture on the gale,

As she comes gliding down the hill

To meet me in the vale.

In all the world, on land or sea,

Where'er I chance to roam,

No music is so sweet to me

As Mary's welcome home.