That Power which gives us happiness, A blessing on his head would pour! Oh! could affection wish him less? Yet, could we ask for more?
LOVED, LOST ONE, FARE THEE WELL.
LOVED, lost one, fare thee well-too harsh the doom That called thee thus in opening life away; Tears fall for thee; and at thy early tomb I come at each return of this blest day, When evening hovers near, with solemn gloom, The pious debt of sorrowing thought to pay, For thee, blest spirit, whose loved form alone Here mouldering sleeps, beneath this simple stone.
But memory claims thee still; and slumber brings Thy form before me as in life it came; Affection conquers death, and fondly clings
Unto the past, and thee, and thy loved name; And hours glide swiftly by on noiseless wings, While sad discourses of thy loss I frame, With her the friend of thy most tranquil years, Who mourns for thee with grief too deep for tears. Sunday evening.
BY MISS ELIZABETH BOGART.
SHE's bid adieu to the midnight ball, And cast the gems aside, Which glittered in the lighted hall: Her tears she cannot hide. She weeps not that the dance is o'er, The music and the song;
She weeps not that her steps no more Are follow'd by the throng:
Her memory seeks one form alone Within that crowded hall;
Her truant thoughts but dwell on one At that gay midnight ball.
And thence her tears unbidden flow- She's bid adieu to him;
The light of love is darkened now- All other lights are dim.
She throws the worthless wreath away That decked her shining hair;
She tears apart the bright bouquet Of flowrets rich and rare.
The leaves lie scattered at her feet, She heeds not where they fall; She sees in them an emblem meet To mark the midnight ball.
A CARELESS, simple bird, one day Flutt'ring in Flora's bowers, Fell in a cruel trap, which lay All hid among the flowers,
Forsooth, the pretty, harmless flowers.
The spring was closed; poor, silly soul, He knew not what to do, Till, squeezing through a tiny hole, At length away he flew,
Unhurt-at length away he flew.
And now from every fond regret And idle anguish free,
He, singing, says, "You need not set
Another trap for me,
False girl! another trap for me."
WHEN motes, that dancing In golden wine, To the eyes' glancing
Speak while they shine- Then, the draught pouring, Love's fountain free, Mute, but adoring,
I drink to thee.
When sleep enchaineth, Sense steals away- Dream, o'er mind reigneth With dark strange sway-
One sweet face floateth
Sleep's misty sea,
Th' unconscious heart doateth
On thee-on thee.
THE MAIDEN SAT AT HER BUSY WHEEL.
"La rose cueillie et le cœur gagné ne plaisent qu'un jour."
THE maiden sat at her busy wheel Her heart was light and free, And ever in cheerful song broke forth Her bosom's harmless glee. Her song was in mockery of love
And oft I heard her say,
"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart, Can charm but for a day."
I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek, And her lip so full and bright,
And I sighed to think that the traitor Love, Should conquer a heart so light:
But she thought not of future days of wo, While she carolled in tones so gay; "The gathered rose, and the stolen heart, Can charm but for a day."
A year passed on, and again I stood By the humble cottage-door; The maid sat at her busy wheel,
But her look was blithe no more:
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