WHEN DO YOU MEAN TO CHANGE YOUR NAME?

"WHEN do you mean to change your name ?"
Sigh'd forth young Harry Bell;
For, since I first a wooing came,
Charm'd by your beauty's spell,
Nigh all the fair ones on the green
Are with their happy partners seen.

Now Harry dearly lov'd his lass,
And she as dearly him,

And, thus to let their best days pass,
Oh, was'nt it a sin?

I only wish that I could sce
A nice young man to marry me,

I'd never hum and ah, I vow;
Now mark you what I'd say,

In answer to "Will you have me?"
Yes, dear, I will,-TO-DAY!"

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And wherefore should I answer so?
Delays are dangerous, you know.

LOVE HATH NO PHYSICIAN.

A RESTLESS lover I espy'd,

That went from place to place;

Lay down and turned from side to side,.
And sometimes on his face;

And when that medicines were applied,

In hope of intermission,

As one that felt no ease, he cried,
"Has Cupid no physician ?"

What do the ladies with their looks,
Their kisses, and their smiles?
Can no receipts in those fair books
Repair their former spoils ?
But they complain as well as we,
Their pains have no remission;
And when both sexes wounded bo,
Hath Cupid no physician ?"

Have we such palsies and such pains,
Such fevers and such fits,
No quintessential chymick grains,
No Esculapian wits,

No creature can beneath the sun
Prevail in opposition?

And when all wonders can be done,
"Hath Cupid no physician ?"

Into what poison do they dip
Their arrows and their darts,

That, touching but an eye or lip,

The pain goes to our hearts?

But now I see, before I get

Into their inquisition,

That Death had never surgeon yet,
Nor Cupid a physician.

SONNET.

LET me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove :

Oh no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out e'en to the edge of doom.

If this be error, and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

OH, WEEP NOT, LADY, FOR THY LOVE,

Он, weep not, lady, for thy love,

Though absent far from thee,

(The God of mercy reigns above,)

He must protected be.

Though many an anxious hour may wend,

Those dreary hours of pain,

The day is long that hath no end,

He shall return again.

Then, weep not, lady, for thy love,
Though absent far from thee,
(The God of mercy reigns above,)
He must protected be.

THE HOUR OF LOVE.

It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high notes are heard;
It is the hour when lover's vows

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word;
And gentle winds and waters near
Make music to the listening ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the heaven the clear obscure
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
Which follows the decline of day
When twilight melts beneath the moon away.

A LEGEND OF ST. MARY.

ONE night, when bitterer winds than ours,
On hill-sides and in valleys low,
Built sepulchres for the dead flowers,
And buried them in sheets of snow-

When over ledges dark and cold,

The sweet moon, rising high and higher, Tipped with a dimly burning gold

St. Mary's old cathedral spire.

The lamp of the confessional,

(God grant it did not burn in vain,)

After the solemn midnight bell,

Streamed redly through the lattice-pane.

And kneeling at the father's feet,

Whose long and venerable hairs,

Now whiter than the mountain sleet,

Could not have numbered half his prayers,

Was one-i cannot picture true
The cherub beauty of his guise:
Lilies, and waves of deepest blue,

Were something like his hands and eyes!

Like yellow mosses on the rocks,

Dashed with the ocean's milk-white spray,
The softness of his golden locks
About his neck and forehead lay.

Father, thy tresses, silver-sleet,
Ne'er swept above a form so fair;
Surely the flowers beneath his feet
Have been a rosary of prayer!

We know not, and we cannot know,

Why swam those meek blue eyes with tears; But surely guilt, or guiltless woe,

Had bowed him earthward more than years.

All the long summer that was gone,
A cottage maid, the village pride,
Fainter and fainter smiles had worn,
And on that very night she died!

As soft as yellow moonbeams streamed
Across her bosom, snowy fair,

She said (the watchers thought she dreamed
'Tis like the shadow of her hair!

And they could hear, who nearest came,
The cross to sign and hope to lend

The murmur of another name

Than that of mother, brother, friend.

An hour-and St. Mary's spires,
Like spikes of flame, no longer glow,
No longer the confessional fires
Shine redly on the drifted snow.

An hour-and the saints had claimed
That cottage maid, the village pride;
And he, whose name in death she named,
Was darkly weeping by her side.

White as a spray-wreath lay her brow
Beneath the midnight of her hair,
But all those passionate kisses now

Wake not the faintest crimson there!