WOMAN AND POETRY.

"What to us were this world and its burden of woe,
But a fetter of clay, that in slavery bound us,

Were our troubles not soothed by the smiles of the fair,
And if poetry spread not its magic around us?
In the hour of gladness, if Woman be near,

More smoothly the stream of enjoyment will flow;
And where can our grief find a balm like the tear
From the bright eyes of her who partakes of our woe?
To the Poet a power of enchantment is given

Which time cannot limit, space cannot define;

Which can lift on its wings the rapt spirit to Heaven,
And make dull mortality almost divine !

Oh! Woman and Poetry, each is a treasure,
A mine of delight that enriches life's span;
The first is a minist'ring angel of pleasure,
While the gift of the next makes an angel of man!"

TO MY WIFE

ON OUR WEDDING DAY.

"Yes, five long summers, love, are past,
Since first our mutual vows were plighted;

But Heaven unites our hands at last,

Whose hearts have been so long united.

That vision of a prosperous day,

Which led our hopes from

Is yet, perhaps, as far away,

year to year,

As when we first believed it near; But wasting time has not betrayed This loyal bosom from its truth, Nor stolen, from my blushing maid, The lustre of her lovely youth:

Her lips can smile as sweetly yet,

As when they won this heart of mine,— Her clustering locks of glossy jet

As richly wreathe, as darkly shine,And, all undimmed, those eyes so bright Still glance their clear meridian beam, Through lashes long, that shade their light Like willows by the sunny stream. Though vain thus long your lover's toils,Though vainly yet he strive again,— Still, still he has his Laura's smiles,

At least he has not loved in vain !—

Yet, as those orient colours fly,

A clearer noon expands above:

The ray serene of constancy,

And heav'nly light of perfect love."

HORACE TWISS.

SONG OF THE PEASANT WIFE.

"Come, Patrick, clear up the storms on your brow;
You were kind to me once-will you frown on me now-
Shall the storm settle here where from Heaven it departs,
And the cold from without find its way to our hearts?
No, Patrick, no! sure the wintriest weather

Is easily borne when we bear it together.

Though the rains dropping through, from the roof to the floor,
And the wind whistles free where there once was a door,
Can the rain, or the snow, or the storm wash away
All the warm vows we made in our love's early day?
No, Patrick, no! sure the dark stormy weather
Is easily borne if we bear it together.

When you stole out to woo me when labour was done,
And the day that was closing to us seemed begun,
Did we care if the sunset was bright on the flowers,

Or if we crept out amid darkness and showers?

No Patrick! we talked, while we brav'd the wild weather, Of all we could bear, if we bore it together.

Soon, soon, will these dark dreary days be gone by,

And our hearts be lit up with a beam from the sky!

Oh let not our spirits, embittered with pain,

Be dead to the sunshine that came to us then!

Heart in heart, hand in hand, let us welcome the weather,

And sunshine or storm, we will bear it together."

By the HON. MRS. NORTON.

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY.

"The fountains mingle with the river,

And the river with the ocean;

The winds of Heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;
All things, by a law divine,
In one another's being mingle;
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high Heaven,
And the waves clasp one another!
No leaf or flower would be forgiven,

If it disdained to kiss its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What are all these kissings worth,

If thou kiss not me?"

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

"Love:-What a volume in a word, an ocean in a tear,
A seventh heaven in a glance, a whirlwind in a sigh,
The lightning in a touch, a millennium in a moment,
What concentrated joy or woe in blest or blighted love!
For is it that native poetry springing up indigenous to mind,
The heart's own country music thrilling all its chords,
The story without an end that angels throng to hear,
The word, the king of words, carved on Jehovah's heart!-

Love is a sweet idolatry enslaving all the soul,

A mighty spiritual force, warring with the dullness of matter, An Angel-mind breathed into a mortal, though fallen yet how beautiful!

All the devotion of the heart in all its depth and grandeur. Behold the pale geranium, pent within the cottage window; How yearningly it stretcheth to the light its sickly long stalked leaves,

How it straineth upward to the sun, coveting his sweet influences,

How real a living sacrifice to the god of all its worship!

Such is the soul that loveth; and so the rose-tree of affection

Bendeth its every leaf to look on those dear eyes,

Its every blushing petal basketh in the light.

And all its gladness, all its life, is hanging on their love.

MARTIN TUPper.