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He never turns, amid the throng,

Where colder ears will listen;
Or gives one thought to that poor song

Once made his eyelids glisten ;
But sometimes when our glances meet,

As looks less warm—more wise-do,
Albeit his lips ne'er say, “'Tis sweet," —

I often think his eyes do !

Oh! brighter smiles than mine may glass

His hours of mirth or sorrow;
And fairer forms than mine may pass

Across his path to-morrow :
But something whispers solace yet,

As stars through darkened skies do ;-
His lips ne'er say, “I don't forget,”

I often think his eyes do !


“L'on n'aime bien qu'une seule fois ; c'est la premierè. Les amours qui suivent sont moins involontaires !"-LA BRUYERE.

How shall I woo her !—I will stand

Beside her when she sings;
And watch that fine and fairy hand

Flit o'er the quivering strings :
And I will tell her I have heard,

Though sweet her song may be,
A voice whose every whispered word
Was more than song to me.

How shall I woo her 2-I will gaze

In sad and silent trance On those blue eyes, whose liquid rays

Look love in every glance : And I will tell her, eyes more bright,

Though bright her own may beam, Will Aling a deeper spell to-night

Upon me in my dream.
How shall I woo her?-I will try

The charms of olden time,
And swear by earth, and sea, and sky;

And rave in prose and rhyme : And I will tell her, when I bent,

My knee in other years,I was not half so eloquent,

I could not speak for tears !

How shall I woo her ?—I will bow

Before the holy shrine ;
And pray the prayer and vow the vow,

And press her lips to mine;
And I will tell her, when she parts

From passion's thrilling kiss,
That memory to many hearts

Is dearer far than bliss.

Away, away, the chords are mute,

The bond is rent in twain ;
You cannot wake that silent lute,

Nor clasp those links again ;
Love's toil, I know, is little cost,

Love's perjury is light sin; But souls that lose what I have lost,

What have they left to win?


One day through Fancy's telescope,

Which is my richest treasure,
I saw, dear Susan, Love and Hope

Set out in search of pleasure :
All mirth and smiles I saw them go ;

Each was the other's banker ;
For Hope took up her brother's bow,

And Love, his sister's anchor.

They rambled on o'er vale and hill,

They passed by cot and tower ;
Through summer's glow and winter's chill,

Through sunshine and through shower :
But what did those fond playmates care

For climate, or for weather ?
All scenes to them were bright and fair

On which they gazed together.

Sometimes they turned aside to bless

Some Muse and her wild numbers,
Or breathe a dream of holiness

On Beauty's quiet slumbers :
“Fly on," said Wisdom, with cold sneers,

“ I teach my friends to doubt you:” “ Come back," said Age, with bitter tears,

“My heart is cold without you."


When Poverty beset their path

And threatened to divide them,
They coaxed away the beldame's wrath

Ere she had breath to chide them,

By vowing all her rags were silk,

And all her bitters, honey,
And showing taste for bread and milk,

And utter scorn of money.
They met stern Danger in their way

Upon a ruin seated ;
Before him kings had quaked that day,

And armies had retreated :
*But he was robed in such a cloud

As Love and Hope came near him, That though he thundered long and loud,

They did not see or hear him. A grey-beard joined them, Time by name;

And Love was nearly crazy
To find that he was very lame,

And also very lazy :
Hope, as he listened to her tale,

Tied wings upon his jacket;
And then they far outran the mail,

And far outsailed the packet.
And so, when they had safely passed

O'er many a land and billow,
Before a grave they stopped at last,

Beneath a weeping willow :
The moon upon the humble mound

Her softest light was flinging ;
And from the thickets all around

Sad nightingales were singing. “I leave you here," quoth Father Time,

As hoarse as any raven ; And Love kneeled down to spell the rhyme

Upon the rude stone graven :

But Hope looked onward, calmly brave,

And whispered, “Dearest brotherWe're parted on this side the grave,

We'll meet upon the other.”


O’er yon Churchyard the storm may lower ;

But, heedless of the wintry air, One little bud shall linger there, A still and trembling flower.

Unscathed by long revolving years,

Its tender leaves shall flourish yet,

And sparkle in the moonlight, wet With the pale dew of tears.

And where thine humble ashes lie,

Instead of 'scutcheon or of stone,

It rises o'er thee, lonely one, Child of obscurity !

Mild was thy voice as Zephyr's breath,

Thy cheek with flowing locks was shaded !

But the voice hath died, the cheek hath faded In the cold breeze of death!

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