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His long black lashes—his own smile--and just such
raven hair : But here's a mark !--poor innocent! he'll love thee
for't thee less, Like that upon thy mother's cheek, his lips were wont
And yet, perhaps, I do him wrong-perhaps, when
all's forgot But our young loves, in memory's mood, he'll kiss
this very spot ; Oh! then, my dearest! clasp thine arms about his
neck full fast, And whisper, that I bless'd him now, and loved him
to the last.
I've heard that little infants converse by smiles and
sigus With the guardian band of Angels that round about
them shines, Unseen by grosser senses—beloved one! dost thou Smile so upon thy heavenly friends, and commune
with them now?
And hast thou not one look for me? those little rest
Are wandering, wandering everywhere the whilst thy
mother dies ! And yet, perhaps, thou’rt seeking memexpecting me,
mine own! Come, Death, and make me to my child, at least in
THERE is a mystic thread of life
So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That Destiny's relentless knife
At once must sever both or none.
There is a form on which these eyes
Have often gazed with fond delight; By day that form their joy supplies,
And dreams restore.it through the night.
There is a voice whose tones inspire
Such thrills of rapture through my breast, I would not hear a seraph choir
Unless that voice could join the rest.
There is a face whose blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheek; But pallid at one fond farewell,
Proclaims more love than words can speak.
There is a lip which mine hath prest,
And none hath ever prest before ; It vowed to make me sweetly blest,
And mine--mine only, press'd it more.
There is a bosom-all my own
Hath pillow'd oft this aching head;
A mouth which smiles on me alone;
An eye whose tears with mine are shed.
There are two hearts whose movements thrill
In unison so closely sweet,
They both must heave-or cease to beat.
There are two souls, whose equal flow,
In gentle streams so calmly run, That, when they part-they part !--ah, no
They cannot part-those souls are one.
Dost thou idly ask to hear
At what gentle seasons Nymphs relent, when lovers dear
Press the tenderest reasons ? Ah, they give their faith too oft
To the careless wooer; Maidens' hearts are always soft,
Would that men's were truer !
Woo the fair one, when around
Early birds are singing;
Early herbs are springing :
When the brook-side, bank and grove,
All with blossoms laden,
Woo the timid maiden.
Woo her, when, with rosy blush,
Summer eve is sinking; When, on rills that softly gush,
Stars are softly winking ; When, through boughs that knit the bower,
Moonlight gleams are stealing; Woo her, till the gentle hour
Wakes a gentler feeling.
Woo her, when autumnal dyes
Tinge the woody mountain ; When the drooping foliage lies
In the half-choked fountain ;
Youth is passing over,
To secure her lover.
Woo her, when the north winds call
At the lattice nightly;
Blaze the faggots brightly ;
Sweeps the landscape hoary, Sweeter in her ear shall sound
Love's delightful story.
THE LADY MAGDALENE.
A Legend of an English Hall.
In a brave old house dwells Magdalene,
And with her there are threeThe blithe old man, the gardener ;
And the good Dame Margery ;
And a priest, who cometh now and then,
With a high and shaven crown, With a foot that trod so silently,
And a long, black, camlet gown.
All up and down the galleries
Went the Lady Magdalene, A-looking at the pictures old,
That on the walls were seen.
"And who is this, Dame Margery,
With the gold chain and the sword ?" Oh, that was thy father, Magdalene, And he was a noble lord!"
" And who is this boy, Dame Margery,
With the greyhound at his side ?" "Ah! that was thy brother, Magdalene;
But at four years old he died !"