Act 5 — HE COMES NOT.

[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]

———

BY C. SWAIN.

———

Night throws her silver tresses back,

And o’er the mountain-tops afar

She leaves a soft and moonlight track,

More glorious than the day-beams are;

And while she steers her moonlight barque

Along that starry river now,

Each leaf, each flower, each bending bough,

Starts into beauty from the dark;

Each path appears a silver line,

And naught in earth—but all divine.

Oh, never light of moon was shed

Upon a maid’s more timid tread;

And never star of heaven shone

On face more fair to look upon.

Hark! was not that a whisper light?

A step—a movement—yet so slight,

That silence holds its breath in vain

To catch that fleeting sound again.

Well may’st thou start, lone, timid dove,

To-night he comes not to thy love.