MARY.

E. C. PINKNET.

I NEED not name thy thrilling name,
Though now I drink to thee, my dear,
Since all sounds shape that magic word,
That fall upon my ear-MARY;
And silence, with a wakeful voice,
Speaks it in accents loudly free,
As darkness hath a light that shows
Thy gentle face to me—MARY.
I pledge thee in the grape's pure soul,
With scarce one hope, and many fears,
Mix'd, were I of a melting mood,
With many bitter tears—MARY.
I pledge thee, and the empty cup
Emblems this hollow life of mine,
To which, a gone enchantment, thou
No more wilt be the wine-MARY.

I THINK of thee when morning springs
From sleep, with plumage bathed in dew,
And, like a young bird, lifts her wings
Of gladness on the welkin blue.

And when at noon the breath of love

O'er flower and stream is wandering free, And sent in music from the grove,

I think of thee-I think of thee.

I think of thee, when, soft and wide,
The evening spreads her robes of light,
And, like a young and timid bride,

Sits blushing in the arms of night.

And when the moon's sweet crescent springs
In light o'er heaven's deep, waveless sea,
And stars are forth like blessed things,
I think of thee-I think of thee.

I think of thee-that eye of flame,
Those tresses falling bright and free,
That brow where "Beauty writes her name,"
I think of thee-I think of thee.

THE

LOVE UNCHANGEABLE.

WIDOW'S SONG.
EDWARD C. PINKNEY.

I BURN no incense, hang no wreath,
O'er this, thine early tomb;

Such cannot cheer the place of death,
But only mock its gloom.

Here odorous smoke and breathing flower
No grateful influence shed;

They lose their perfume and their power,

When offer'd to the dead.

And if, as in the Afghan's creed,
The spirit may return,
A disembodied sense, to feed
On fragrance, near its urn-
It is enough, that she, whom thou
Didst love in living years,
Sits desolate beside it now,
And falls these heavy tears.

LOVE UNCHANGEABLE.
RUFUS DAWES. Born 1803.

YES! still I love thee :-Time, who sets
His signet on my brow,

And dims my sunken eye, forgets
The heart he could not bow ;-
Where love, that could not perish, grows,
For one, alas! that little knows

How love may sometimes last;
Like sunshine wasting in the skies,
When clouds are overcast.

The dew-drop, hanging o'er the rose,
Within its robe of light,

Can never touch a leaf that blows,
Though seeming to the sight;
And yet it still will linger there,
Like hopeless love without despair-
A snow-drop in the sun!

A moment finely exquisite,
Alas! but only one.

I would not have thy married heart
Think momently of me;

Nor would I tear the cords apart,
That binds me so to thee.

13

No! while my thoughts seem pure and mild,
Like dew upon the roses wild,

I would not have thee know
The stream that seems to be so still,
Has such a tide below!

Enough! that in delicious dreams
I see thee and forget-

Enough, that when the morning beams,
I feel my eyelids wet!

Yet, could I hope, when Time shall fall
The darkness, for creation's pall,

To meet thee-and to love

I would not shrink from aught below,
Nor ask for more above.

LIFT UP THE CURTAINS OF THINE EYES.

J. RUSSELL LOWELL.

I.

LIFT up the curtains of thine eyes,
And let their light outshine;
Let me adore the mysteries

Of those mild orbs of thine,
Which ever queenly calm do roll,
Attuned to an order'd soul!

II.

Open thy eyes but once again,
And, while my heart doth hush
With awe, pour forth that holy strain
Which seemeth me to gush,

A fount of music running o'er
From thy deep spirit's inmost core!

III.

The melody that dwells in thee

Begets in me as well

A spiritual harmony,

A mild and blessed spell;
Far, far above earth's atmosphere
I rise, whene'er thy voice I hear.

THY SMILES.

SHE LOVES, BUT 'TIS NOT ME.
C. F. HOFFMAN.

SHE loves, but 'tis not me she loves:
Not me on whom she ponders,
When, in some dream of tenderness,
Her truant fancy wanders.

The forms that flit her visions through
Are like the shapes of old,
Where tales of prince and paladin
On tapestry are told.

Man may not hope her heart to win,
Be his of common mould.

But I-though spurs are won no more
Where herald's tramp is pealing,
Nor thrones carved out for lady fair

Where steel-clad ranks are wheeling

I loose the falcon of my hopes

Upon as proud a flight

As those who hawk'd at high renown
In song-ennobled fight.

If daring, then, true love may crown,
My love she must requite.

15

[Music by Horn.

I KNOW I share thy smiles with many,
Yet still thy smiles are dear to me;
I know that I, far less than any,
Call out thy spirit's witchery;
But yet, I cannot help, when nigh thee,
To seize upon each glance and tone,
To hoard them in my heart when by thee,
And count them o'er whene'er alone.

But why, O, why, on all thus squander
The treasures one alone can prize?
Why let the looks at random wander,
Which beam from those deluding eyes?
Those syren tones, so lightly spoken,
Cause many a heart, I know, to thrill;
But mine, and only mine, till broken,
In every pulse must answer still.

BEN BOLT.*

[Music by Nelson Kneass.

OH! don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt-
Sweet Alice with hair so brown-

She wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
And trembled with fear at your frown?

In the old churchyard in that valley, Ben Bolt,
In a corner obscure and alone,

They have fitted a slab of granite so gray,

And sweet Alice lies under the stone.

They have fitted, &c.

Oh! don't you remember the wood, Ben Bolt,
Near the green sunny slope of the hill,

Where oft we have sung 'neath its wide spreading shade,
And kept time to the click of the mill ?
The mill has gone to decay, Ben Bolt,
And a quiet now reigns all around-

See the old rustic porch, with its roses so sweet,
Lies scatter'd and fallen to the ground.

See the old rustic porch, &c.

Oh! don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
And the master so kind and so true,
And the little nook by the clear running brook,
Where we gather'd the flowers as they grew ?
On the master's grave grows the grass, Ben Bolt,
And the running little brook is now dry;
And of all the friends that were schoolmates then,
There remains, Ben, but you and I.

And of all the friends, &c.

NO JOY I'LL SEE BUT IN THOSE SMILES.

JOSEPH A. NUNES.

I'LL think of thee, that thought alone
Can never from my memory flee;

In every breeze I'll find a tone

[Music by Bellak.

That whispers naught but love and thee.

And every sound that greets my ear,

And every object that I see,

Will be to me more sweet, more dear,

When mingled with the thoughts of thee.

This song is almost a "household word" in Great Britain. The composer is an obscure wandering musician, who at one time belonged to a strolling troupe of thiopian serenaders."