She brings the posy rare

Into his darkened room;

And 'neath his weary head

The pillow smooth doth spread.

Until the hour when death

His lamp of love doth dim,

She never wearieth,

She never leaveth him; Still near him night and day, She meets his eye alway.

And when his trial's o'er,

And the turf is on his breast,

Deep in her bosom's core

Lie sorrows unexprest;

Her tears, her sighs, are weak,
Her settled grief to speak.

And though there may arise
Balm for her spirit's pain,
And though her quiet eyes

May sometimes smile again;
Still, still, she must regret,—

She never can forget!"

MARY ANN BROWNE.

FEMALE FAITH.

"She loved you when the sunny light

Of bliss was on your brow;

That bliss has sunk in sorrow's night,
And yet she loves you now.

She loved you when your joyous tone
Taught every heart to thrill;

The sweetness of that tongue is gone,

And yet she loves you still.

She loved you when you proudly stept

The gayest of the gay;

That pride the blight of time hath swept,

Unlike her love, away.

She loved you when your home and heart
Of fortune's smile could boast;

She saw that smile decay-depart-
And then she loved you most.

Oh! such the generous faith that glows In woman's gentle breast;

"Tis like that star that stays and glows

Alone in night's dark vest;

That stays because each other ray
Has left the lonely shore,

And that the wanderer on his way

Then wants her light the more."

L. E. L.

C

THE HUSBAND'S SONG.

Rainy and rough sets the day,

There's a heart beating for somebody;

I must be up and away

Somebody's anxious for somebody.

Thrice hath she been to the gate,

Thrice hath she listen'd for somebody;

'Midst the night, stormy and late,

Somebody's waiting for somebody.

There'll be a comforting fire,

There'll be a welcome for somebody;

One, in her neatest attire,

Will look to the table for somebody.

Though the stars fled from the west,
There is a star yet for somebody,

Lighting the home he loves best,

Warming the bosom of somebody.

There'll be a coat o'er the chair,

There will be slippers for somebody; There'll be a wife's tender care,

Love's fond embracement for somebody: There'll be the little one's charms,

Soon 'twill be waken'd for somebody;

When I have both in my arms,

Oh! but how blest will be somebody!

CHARLES SWAIN.

DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.

Domestic happiness, thou only bliss

Of Paradise, that hast survived the fall!
Though few now taste the unimpaired and pure,
Or, tasting, long enjoy thee; too infirm,
Or too incautious to preserve thy sweets
Unmixt with drops of bitter, which neglect
Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup.

Thou art the nurse of virtue-in thine arms
She dwells, appearing, as in truth she is,
Heav'n born, and destined to the skies again-
Thou art not known, where pleasure is ador'd,