And still, in maiden purity,

That maiden blush replied.

Life, love, and hope were in their spring,
Beneath a cloudless sky;

The wild bird spread its silken wing,
But breathed less melody.

Young nectar from the myrtle bower
The honey-bee might sip;

The warrior found a sweeter flower
In the dew of the maiden's lip.

Still does the wild bird cleave the sky, The honey-bee is glad:

Why dim with tears that maiden's eye, And why that warrior sad?

"Maiden! dost fear to meet the storm
That shades a soldier's way?
The gems that deck the lordling's form-
Dost sigh for such as they?

"I woo thee not with glittering braid
And jewels for thy hair-

The golden gift that wins the maid
An idle vow may bear."

Still does the wild bird cleave the sky,
The honey-bee is glad;

Why dim with tears that maiden eye,

And why that warrior sad?

"To horse! to horse! my melody Shall be the battle cry,

And the war trump of victory

As sweet as woman's sigh!

"For fetter'd birds go free again,
And love can dream of scorn;
When woman idly weaves the chain,
As idly be it worn."

Still does the wild bird cleave the sky,
The honey bee is gay,

But tears bedimm'd that maiden's eye
As the warrior pass'd away.

"They say there's bliss in the princely train,
And in a robe of pride;

Then wake for me the bridal strain"
The maiden said and sigh'd.

Loud laughter fills the banquet hall,
There's music in the grove,
And steps as light as music's fall
To catch the voice of love.

She led the dance in merry glee,
Her song was on the wind,
And the red rose lay gracefully
Within her hair reclined.

But hark! the harper's minstrelsy-
Of other days a part!

She glanced upon the myrtle tree
And icy felt her heart;

And a shade was on the festal hour,

The jewel lights grew dim;

She only saw that myrtle bower,

She only thought of him.

"Oh! take me where the breezes swell,

Far from the haunts of pride,

For they say there 's joy where wild flowers dwell,”— The maiden said and sigh'd.

The forest blossoms bound her brow,
But the heart was cold below;
And if she wakes the harp-strings now,
What can they breathe but wo?

"That dream-that dream-it comes again,

Link'd with its broken yow;

As beautiful, as frail, as then,
They stand before me now!

"Gather the young, the fair, the free,
Where a thousand torches glare,
With lyre and wreath and revelry-
Still is that vision there!

"It comes when summer skies are bright,
On the laugh of the morning breeze-
It comes when evening's misty light
Has swept the sleeping seas

An early rest in the sullen pall,

One dream with the death pang wove-
Oh! never of gems or of festal hall-
But that first young dream of love!

PSALM CXXXVII.

COME Sweep the harp! one thrilling rush
Of all that warm'd its chords to song,

And then the strains for ever hush,

That oft have breathed its wires along :
The ray is quench'd that lit our mirth,

The shrine is gone that claim'd the prayer,

And exiles o'er the distant earth,

How can we wake the carol there?

One sigh, my harp! and then to sleep,
For all that loved thy song have flown,
Why shouldst thou lonely vigils keep,
Forsaken, broken, and alone?
Let this sad murmur be thy last,
Nor e'er again in music swell;
Thine hours of joyousness are past,
And thus we sever; fare thee well!

GEORGE P. MORRIS

Is a native of New York. In 1823, in conjunction with Mr Woodworth, he established a paper in New York, called The New York Mirror and Ladies' Literary Gazette; of this he is now the editor. He is the author of a dramatic piece, entitle Brier Cliff.

WOMAN.

AH! woman-in this world of ours,

What gift can be compared to thee?
How slow would drag life's weary hours,

Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers,
And his the wealth of land and sea,

If destined to exist alone,

And ne'er call woman's heart his own.

My mother!-at that holy name,
Within my bosom there's a gush
Of feeling, which no time can tame,
A feeling which, for years of fame,
I would not, could not crush.
And sisters!-they are dear as life—
But when I look upon my WIFE,

My life-blood gives a sudden rush,
And all my fond affections blend,
In mother-sisters-wife-and friend.

Yes, woman's love is free from guile,
And pure as bright Aurora's ray-
The heart will melt before its smile,
And earthly passions fade away.
Were I the monarch of the earth,
And master of the swelling sea,
I would not estimate their worth,
Dear woman, half the price of thee.

THE MINIATURE.

WILLIAM was holding in his hand
The likeness of his wife:

"T was drawn by some enchanter's wandIt look'd-it smiled-like life!

He almost thought it spoke-he gazed
Upon the painting still,

And was delighted and amazed

To view the artist's skill.

"This picture is thyself, sweet Jane,—

"T is drawn to nature true;

I've kiss'd it o'er and o'er again,
It is so much like you!"

"And has it kiss'd you back, my dear?" "Why-no, my love," said he ;

"Then, William, it is

very clear

It's not at all like me."

WHAT CAN IT MEAN?

I'm much too young to marry,
For I am only seventeen;

Why think I then of Harry ?

What can it mean-what can it mean?

Whenever Harry meets me,

Beside the brook, or on the green,

How tenderly he greets me!

What can it mean-what can it mean?

Whene'er my name he utters,

A blush upon my cheek is seen,

And then my heart so flutters―

What can it mean-what can it mean?

And when he mentions Cupid,

Or, smiling, calls me "fairy queen,"

I sigh and look so stupid!

What can it mean-what can it mean?