On those blue eyes, whose liquid rays
Look love in every glance:

And let him tell her, eyes more bright,
Though bright her own may beam,
Will fling a deeper spell to-night
Upon him in his dream.

How shall he woo her?-Let him try
The charms of olden time,

And swear by earth and sea and sky,
And rave in prose and rhyme:
And let him tell her, when he bent
His knee in other years,

He was not half so eloquent,-
He could not speak for tears!

How shall he woo her?-Let him bow
Before the shrine in prayer;

And bid the priest pronounce the vow
That hallows passion there:
And let him tell her, when she parts
From his unchidden kiss,
That memory to many hearts
Is dearer far than bliss.

Away, away! the chords are mute,
The bond is rent in twain;
You cannot wake that silent lute,

Nor clasp those links again;

Love's toil, I know, is little cost,

Love's perjury is light sin;

But souls that lose what his hath lost,-
Oh, what have they to win?

A RETROSPECT.

"The Lady of his love, oh, she was changed,
As by the sickness of the soul !"—Byron.

"Go thon, white in thy soul, to fill a throne
Of innocence and sanctity in Heaven."-Ford.

I KNEW that it must be!

Yea, thou art changed-all worshipped as thou

art

ourned as thou shalt be! sickness of the heart Hath done its work on thee!

Thy dim eyes tell a tale

A piteous tale of vigils; and the trace
Of bitter tears is on thy beauteous face,-
Beauteous, and yet so pale.

Changed Love!-but not alone!

I am not what they think me; though my cheek Wear but its last year's furrow, though I speak Thus in my natural tone.

The temple of my youth

Was strong in moral purpose; once I felt
The glory of Philosophy, and knelt
In the pure shrine of Truth.

I went into the storm,

And mocked the billows of the tossing sea:
I said to Fate, "What wilt thou do to me?
I have not harmed a worm!"

Vainly the heart is steeled

In Wisdom's armour; let her burn her books!
I look upon them as the soldier looks
Upon his cloven shield.

Virtue and Virtue's rest

How have they perished! through my onward

course

Repentance dogs my footsteps: black Remorse Is my familiar guest.

The glory and the glow

Of the world's loveliness have passed away;
And Fate hath little to inflict to-day,
And nothing to bestow.

Is not the damning line

Of guilt and grief engraven on me now?
And the fierce passion which hath scathed thy

brow

Hath it not blasted mine?

No matter! I will turn

To the straight path of Duty; I have wrought
At last my wayward spirit to be taught
What it hath yet to learn.

Labour shall be my lot:

My kindred shall be joyful in my praise;
And Fame shall twine for me in after-days
A wreath I covet not:

And, if I cannot make,

Dearest, thy hope my hope, thy trust my trust, Yet will I study to be good and just

And blameless, for thy sake.

Thou mayst have comfort yet!

Whate'er the source from which those waters

glide,

Thou hast found healing mercy in their tide;Be happy, and forget.

Forget me, and farewell;

But say not that in me new hopes and fears,
Or absence, or the lapse of gradual years,
Will break thy memory's spell:

Indelibly, within,

All I have lost is written; and the theme Which Silence whispers to my thought and dream Is sorrow still,-and sin.

(1831.)

A BALLAD

TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR.

"Non voglio cento scudi."-Italian Song.

On, say not that the minstrel's art,
The glorious gift of verse,

Though his hopes decay, though his friend depart,

Can ever be a curse;

Though sorrow reign within his heart.

And poortith hold his purse

Say not his toil is profitless;

Though he charm no rich relation,

The Fairies all his labours bless
With such reinuneration

As Mr. Hume would soon confess
Beyond his calculation.

Annuities and Three per Cents.,
Little cares he about them;

And Indian bonds, and tithes, and rents,
He rambles on without them;
But love, and noble sentiments,
Oh never bid him doubt them!-