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That brow with clouds is overcast, That cheek is wan and paledWhat spell has o'er her spirit passed, And what her heart assailed?

Another gaze: a tear is there-
The effort was in vain,
When sorrow is too deep to bear,
Who shall its tears restrain?
Now the deep fountain is unsealed,
The gushing waters rise,
Her agony is all revealed
In those o'erflowing eyes!

Upon her hand a diamond rare
Reflects the setting sun,

But where is he who placed it there
When their young hearts were one?
Oh, in that word the secret lies,
For they are one no more!

Joy in the faithful bosom dies

When Love's sweet dream is o'er.

That spot-the hues Elysian
Of sky and plain--

I treasure in my vision,
Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses
In their prime;
Thy voice excelled the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;

Thy heart was as a river

Without a main.

Would I had loved thee never,
Florence Vane!

But fairest, coldest, wonder!
Thy glorious clay

Lieth the green sod under-
Alas the day!

And it boots not to remember
Thy disdain-

To quicken love's pale ember,
Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep,

The daisies love to dally

Where maidens sleep;

May their bloom, in beauty vying,

Never wane

Where thine earthly part is lying,

Florence Vane!

THE AZURE SMILE OF SUMMER EYES.

BY M'DONALD CLARKE.

THE azure smile of summer eyes
May charm the young and gay,
But those where sorrow's shadow lies,
Like winter's sundown ray,

Are dearer to the desert heart
That all its loneness feels,

As answering tears will always start
Where gloomy music steals.

Our feelings darken, like the rays
Of twilight through a cloud,
Shading the bloom of boyhood's days,
And hopes, unbreathed aloud:
Hopes-that have cheered us but to cheat,
And gone to come no more,
Save when in funeral dreams we meet
The forms, so loved of yore.

O sing the mourning songs, my child,
The bleak wild songs of old,
O'er which fond eyes have wept and smiled,
That now are closed, and cold.
Eyes-that life's weeping passions wet
Once with enjoyment bright,

Ere the beams of human bliss had set
In memory's moonless night.

THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE.

BY PHILIP FRENEAU.

FAIR flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouched, thy honeyed blossoms blow,
Unseen, thy little branches greet:
No roving foot shall find thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;
Thus quietly thy summer goes,
Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay,
I grieve to see your future doom;
They died-nor were those flowers less gay,
The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
Unpitying frosts, and autumn's power,
Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews
At first thy little being came:

If nothing once, you nothing lose,

For when you die you are the same;
The space between is but an hour,
The frail duration of a flower.

THE DOLLARS.

BY WM. E. BURTON.

WE find throughout this earthly ball,
The "one thing needful" governs all;
Nobles, commons, dunces, scholars,
Nothing's done without the dollars.
That money flies the poet sings,
On paper or on golden wings;
This solemn truth each biped knows,
It makes him look straight down his nose,
To see the way the money goes.

The bachelor, tired of single life,
Resolves to venture on a wife;
His house is furnished all in taste,
And purse and pocket run to waste.
She orders sofas, couches, chairs,

Curtains, and carpets, and china wares,

French clocks, French lamps, and French quelque chose,

Each day her taste more costly grows,―

And that's the way the money goes.

Ere twelve months their course have run,
His wife presents him with a son;
Instead of making the pappy glad,
The expenses almost drive him mad.

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