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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

to press.

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

less eyes

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

spirit known!



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,
That, pulse to pulse responsive still,

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;
When, o'er all the fragrant ground,

Early herbs are springing :

When the brook-side, bank and grove,

All with blossoms laden,
Shine with beauty, breathe of love,-

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 ;
Let the scene, that tells how fast

Youth is passing over,
Warn her, ere her bloom is past,

To secure her lover.

Woo her, when the north winds call

At the lattice nightly;
When, within the cheerful hall,

Blaze the faggots brightly ;
While the wintry tempest round

Sweeps the landscape hoary, Sweeter in her ear shall sound

Love's delightful story.



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!"

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" 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 !"


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