But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,

The same look which she turned when he

(From "The Curse of Kehama."')

THEY sin who tell us love can die.

With Life all other passions fly,

All others are but vanity.

In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell; Earthly, these passions of the earth, They perish where they had their birth. But Love is indestructible. Its holy flame forever burneth, From heaven it came, to heaven returneth; Too oft on earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times oppressed, It here is tried and purified, Then hath in heaven its perfect rest; It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest-time of Love is there. Oh! when a mother meets on high The babe she lost in infancy, Hath she not then, for pains and fears, The day of woe, the watchful night,

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

"'TIS LIKE A TALE OF OLDEN

TIME."

H! 'tis like a tale of olden time,

A Long, long ago;

When the world was in its golden prime,

And Love was lord below!

Every vein of Earth was dancing

With the Spring's new wine; 'Twas the pleasant time of flowers

When I met you, love of mine!

Ah! some spirit sure was straying
Out of heaven that day,
When I met you, Sweet! a-Maying
In that merry, merry May.
Little heart! it shyly opened

Its red leaves' love lore,
Like a rose that must be ripened

To the dainty, dainty core.

But its beauties daily brightened,
And it blooms so dear,
Though a many winters whiten,
I go Maying all the year,
And my proud heart will be praying
Blessings on the day

When I met you, Sweet, a-Maying,
In that merry, merry May.

GERALD MASSEY.

An hour to quiet, comes he still; And hunts up every sign concealed, And every outward sign of ill; And gives me his sad face's pleasures, For merriment's, or sleep's, or leisure's. THOMAS BURBIDGE.

SONG OF EGLA.

(From "Zophiel.")

melting

Blossoms, all around me sighing,
Fragrance from the lilies straying,
Zephyr with my ringlets playing,
Ye but waken my distress;
I am sick of loneliness!

Thou to whom I love to hearken,
Come, ere night around me darken!
Though thy softness but deceive Le,
Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee;
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent;
Let me think it innocent!

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure;
All I ask is friendship's pleasure;
Let the shining ore lie darkling,
Bring no gem in luster sparkling;
Gifts and gold are naught to me;
I would only look on thee;

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Ecstasy but in revealing;

Paint to thee the deep sensation,

Rapture in participation,

Yet but torture, if compressed

In a lone, unfriended breast.

Absent still? Ah, come and bless me!
Let these eyes again caress thee!
Once, in caution, I could fly thee;
Now, I nothing could deny thee;
In a look if death there be,
Come, and I will gaze on thee!

MARIA GOWEN BROOKS.

LOVE-LETTERS.

S snowdrops come to a wintry world

A Like angels in the night,

And we see not the Hand who sent us them,
Though they give us strange delight;
And strong as the dew to freshen the flower
Are those little things called "letters of love,"
Or quicken the slumbering seed,

To hearts that comfort need.

For alone in the world, midst toil and sin, These still, small voices wake music within.

They come, they come, these letters of love, To silence fear with thoughts of cheer, Blessing and being blest,

That give to the weary rest:

A mother looks out on the angry sea
With a yearning heart in vain,
And a father sits musing over the fire,

As he heareth the wind and the rain;
And a sister sits singing a favorite song,
Unsung for a long, long while,

Till it brings the thought, with a tear to her

eye,

Of a brother's vanished smile;

And with hearts and eyes more full than all, Two lovers look forth for these blessings to fall!

And they come, they come, these letters of love,

Blessing and being blest,

To silence fear with thoughts of cheer,
That give to the weary rest:

Oh! never may we be so lonely in life,
So ruined and lost to love,

That never an olive branch comes to our ark
Of home from some cherished dove;
And never may we, in happiest hours,
Or when our prayers ascend,
Feel that our hearts have grown too cold
For a thought on an absent friend!
For, like summer rain to the fainting flowers,
They are stars to the heart in its darkest

hours.

ROWLAND BROWN.