Wed him!-Never. He has lost me !

Tears!-Well, let them flow!-His bride?—

No.-The struggle life may cost me!

But he'll find that I have pride!

Love is not an idle flower,

Blooms and dies the self-same hour.

Titles, lands, and broad dominion,
With himself to me he gave;
Stoop'd to earth his spirit's pinion,

And became my willing slave!
Knelt and pray'd until he won me-
Looks he coldly now upon me?

Ingrate !--Never sure was maiden
Wronged so foul as I. With grief

My true breast is overladen

Tears afford me no relief.——

Every nerve is strained and aching,
And my very heart is breaking!

Love I him?—Thus scorned and slighted-
Thrown, like worthless weed, apart--
Hopes and feelings sear'd and blighted-
Love him?-Yes, with all my heart!
With a passion superhuman-
Constancy, "thy name is woman.”

Love nor time, nor mood, can fashion—
Love?-Idolatry's the word

To speak the broadest, deepest passion,

Ever woman's heart hath stirr'd!

Vain to still the mind's desires,

Which consume like hidden fires!

Wreck'd and wretched, lost and lonely, Crush'd by grief's oppressive weight, With a prayer for Clifford only,

I resign me to my fate.

Chains that bind the soul I've proven
Strong as they were iron-woven.

Deep the wo that fast is sending

From my cheek its healthful bloom; Sad my thoughts, as willows bending O'er the borders of the tomb. Without Clifford not a blessing In the world is worth possessing.

Wealth!-a straw within the balance,

Opposed to love 'twill kick the beam: Kindred-friendship-beauty-talents?— All to love as nothing seem; Weigh love against all else together, As solid gold against a feather.

Hope is flown-away disguises—

Nought but death relief can give—

For the love he little prizes

Cannot cease and Julia live!

Soon my

thread of life will sever

Clifford, fare thee well-for ever!

THOUGHTS AT THE GRAVE OF A DEPARTED

FRIEND.

BY JOHN INMAN.

LOVED, lost one, fare thee well-too harsh the doom
That called thee thus in opening life away;
Tears fall for thee; and at thy early tomb
I come at each return of this blest day,
When evening hovers near, with solemn gloom,
The pious debt of sorrowing thought to pay,
For thee, blest spirit, whose loved form alone
Here mouldering sleeps, beneath this simple stone.

But memory claims thee still; and slumber brings
Thy form before me as in life it came;
Affection conquers death, and fondly clings

Unto the past, and thee, and thy loved name;
And hours glide swiftly by on noiseless wings,
While sad discourses of thy loss I frame,
With her the friend of thy most tranquil years,
Who mourns for thee with grief too deep for tears.
Sunday Evening.

SONG.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

A CARELESS, Simple bird, one day
Flutt'ring in Flora's bowers,

Fell in a cruel trap, which lay

All hid among the flowers,

Forsooth, the pretty, harmless flowers.

The spring was closed; poor, silly soul,
He knew not what to do,

Till, squeezing through a tiny hole,
At length away he flew,

Unhurt at length away he flew.

And now from every fond regret
And idle anguish free,

He, singing, says, "You need not set
Another trap for me,

False girl! another trap for me."

ANACREONTIC.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

BLAME not the Bowl-the fruitful Bowl! Whence wit, and mirth, and music spring, And amber drops elysian roll,

To bathe young Love's delighted wing.

What like the grape Osiris gave

Makes rigid age so lithe of limb ?

Illumines Memory's tearful wave,

And teaches drowning Hope to swim?
Did Ocean from his radiant arms
To earth another Venus give,

He ne'er could match the mellow charms
That in the breathing beaker live.

Like burning thoughts which lovers hoard
In characters that mock the sight,
Till some kind liquid, o'er them poured,
Brings all their hidden warmth to light—
Are feelings bright, which, in the cup,
Though graven deep, appear but dim,
Till filled with glowing Bacchus up,
They sparkle on the foaming brim.
Each drop upon the first you pour
Brings some new tender thought to life,
And as you fill it more and more,
The last with fervid soul is rife.

The island fount, that kept of old
Its fabled path beneath the sea,
And fresh, as first from earth it rolled,
From earth again rose joyously;

Bore not beneath the bitter brine,

Each flower upon its limpid tide, More faithfully than in the wine,

Our hearts will toward each other glide. Then drain the cup, and let thy soul Learn, as the draught delicious flies, Like pearls in the Egyptian's bowl, Truth beaming at the bottom lies.

MELODY.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

IF yon bright stars, which gem the night, Be each a blissful dwelling sphere,

Where kindred spirits re-unite

Whom death has torn asunder here,