STANZAS.

WHEN stars forsake the sullen sea,
When rains descend and winds arise,
Some rock a sunny bower may be,
If Hope but lend us eyes.

It tracks our steps in every stage,
And wakes a fountain in the wild;
It mingles, with the thoughts of age,
The rapture of a child.

It sheds on Joy a richer glow,
It flings to want its gifts of gold;
But oh! its hand—as pure as snow—
Will sometimes prove as cold!

Yet when the graces fall from youth, And Passion's fervid cheek grows pale, Then Hope becomes a thing of truthA faith too deep to fail.

MELODY À LA MOORE.

OH! give me not unmeaning smiles,

Though cloud-like cares may fly before them; But let me see the sweet blue isles

Of radiant eyes when tears wash o'er them. Though small the fount where they begin, They form 'tis thought in many a sonnet, A flood to drown our sense of sin ;

But ah! Love's ark still floats upon it.

Then give me tears-oh! hide not one;
The best affections are but flowers,

That faint beneath the fervid sun,

And languish once a day for showers.

Yet perils lurk in every gem

For tears are worse than swords in slaughter;

And men are still subdued by them,

As humming-birds are shot with water!

LOVE.

That boy will be the death of me.-CHARLES MATHEWS.

It is not on the mountain, nor in palaces of pride,
That Love will fold his wings up and joyfully abide ;
In meek and humble natures his home is ever found,
As the lark that sings in heaven builds its nest upon the
ground.

His voice is as the music in the breath of summer heard,
Oh Love is often shaken by the whisper of a word;
His smile is in the sunshine, and his laughter in the

glades,

Oh that winter should o'ertake him with its silence and

its shades.

THE SHADOWS OF LOVE.

1835.

As a rose-leaf may tincture
The breast with its hue,
So Love's golden cincture
Must darken it too.

Yet light are the troubles
That sadden its mirth,

As the smooth water-bubbles
That break in their birth.

The shade on his temples

His bright locks diffuse;

And the tears in his dimples,
What are they but dews?

The slightest thing made,
Though fragile and tender,

Hath always a shade

To await on its splendour.