TO MY WIFE. BY LINDLEY MURRAY. WHEN on thy bosom I recline, 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, If cares arise—and cares will come- I'll lull me there to rest; And is there aught disturbs my fair? And lose it in my breast. Have I a wish ?-'tis all her own; LAMENT. BY MARY E. BROOKS. Он, weep not for the dead! Weep for the spirit withering But never be a tear-drop shed Oh, weep not for the dead! 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 Give me this hope, though only from afar And, like yon dewy melancholy star, Let me but hope a heart with fondness fraught, Against its worshipped idol, e'en in thought, 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, FEATS OF DEATH. BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON. Ob: 1825, at. 17. I HAVE passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night, My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night, I passed o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy I stay not to gather the lone one to earth, I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth, I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there; The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along, And sweet, and half sad were the numbers he wove. O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 'twas recklessly hung; 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! Renew the spell ; Each burning tone, Far sweeter than the wild bird's melting note; Their voices float. |