TO MY WIFE.

BY LINDLEY MURRAY.

WHEN on thy bosom I recline,
Enraptur'd still to call thee mine,
To call thee mine for life,

I glory in the sacred ties,

Which modern wits and fools despise, Of Husband and of Wife.

One mutual flame inspires our bliss ; The tender look, the melting kiss, Even years have not destroyed; Some sweet sensation, ever new, Springs up and proves the maxim true, That love can ne'er be cloy'd.

Have I a wish ?-'tis all for thee,
Hast thou a wish ?-'tis all for me,
So soft our moments move,
That angels look with ardent gaze,
Well pleas'd to see our happy days,
And bid us live-and love.

If cares arise—and cares will come-
Thy bosom is my softest home,

I'll lull me there to rest;

And is there aught disturbs my fair?
I'll bid her sigh out every care,

And lose it in my breast.

Have I a wish ?-'tis all her own;
All hers and mine are roll'd in one-
Our hearts are so entwined,
That, like the ivy round the tree,
Bound up in closest amity,
"Tis death to be disjoined.

LAMENT.

BY MARY E. BROOKS.

Он, weep not for the dead!
Rather, oh rather give the tear
To those that darkly linger here,
When all besides are fled;

Weep for the spirit withering
In its cold cheerless sorrowing,
Weep for the young and lovely one
That ruin darkly revels on;

But never be a tear-drop shed
For them, the pure enfranchised dead.

Oh, weep not for the dead!
No more for them the blighting chill,
The thousand shades of earthly ill,
The thousand thorns we tread;
Weep for the life-charm early flown,
The spirit broken, bleeding, lone ;
Weep for the death pangs of the heart,
Ere being from the bosom part;

But never be a tear-drop given

To those that rest in yon blue heaven.

"AFFECTION WINS AFFECTION."

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

MINE Own beloved, believest thou ought of this?

Oh! then no more

My heart, o'er early faded dreams of bliss
Its wail shall pour.

Give me this hope, though only from afar
It sheds its light,

And, like yon dewy melancholy star,
With tears is bright-

Let me but hope a heart with fondness fraught,
That could not sin

Against its worshipped idol, e'en in thought,
Thy love may win:

Let me but hope the changeless love of years,

The tender care

That fain would die to save thine eye from tears, Thy heart may share.

Or let me hope at least that, when no more

My voice shall meet

The ear that listens only to think o'er

Tones far more sweet;

When the kind shelter of the grave

This faded brow,

shall hide

This form once gazed upon with pride,

With coldness now;

When never more my weary steps of pain

Around thee move,

When loosed for ever is life's heavy chain,
Love will win love.

FEATS OF DEATH.

BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.

Ob: 1825, at. 17.

I HAVE passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night,
I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad light;
I have paused o'er the bower where the infant lay sleeping,
And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping.

My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night,
Which withers and moulders the flower in its light,
Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow,
And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low;
I culled the fair bud as it danced in its mirth,
And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth.

I passed o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy
Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high;
The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight,
And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night.

I stay not to gather the lone one to earth,

I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth,
But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave,
I stop not to pity—I stay not to save.

I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there;
It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair!
The deep purple fountain seemed melting away,
And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play;
She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me,
I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free.

The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along,
With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song;
The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love,

And sweet, and half sad were the numbers he wove.
I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung;.

O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 'twas recklessly hung;
The minstrel was not! and I passed on alone,

O'er the newly-raised turf and the rudely-carved stone.

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL.

BY MARY E. BROOKS.

FAREWELL to thee,

To thee, the young home of my heart, farewell!
How often will thy form in memory

Renew the spell ;

Each burning tone,

Far sweeter than the wild bird's melting note;
Across my spirit like a dream by-gone,

Their voices float.