HER FIRST SMILE.

He came too late! at once he felt
That all his power was o'er!
Indifference in her calm smile dwelt,
She thought of him no more.
Anger and grief had passed away,
Her heart and thoughts were free;
She met him, and her words were gay,
No spell had memory.

He came too late! the subtle chords
Of love were all unbound,

Not by offence of spoken words,

But by the slights that wound.
She knew that life held nothing now
That could the past repay,
Yet she disdained his tardy vow,
And coldly turned away.

He came too late! her countless dreams
Of hope had long since flown;

No charms dwelt in his chosen themes,

Nor in his whispered tone.

And when, with word and smile, he tried
Affection still to prove,

She nerved her heart with woman's pride,
And spurned his fickle love.

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It came to my heart, like the first gleam of morning,
To one who has watch'd through a long dreary night;
It flew to my heart, without prelude or warning,

And waken'd at once there a wordless delight.
That sweet pleading mouth, and those eyes of deep azure,
That gazed into mine so imploringly sad;

How faint o'er them floated the light of that pleasure,
Like sunshine o'er flowers, that the night-mist has clad!
Until that golden moment, her soft, fairy features,
Had seem'd like a suffering seraph's to me;

A stray child of heaven's, amid earth's coarser creatures,
Looking back for her lost home that still she could see..
But now, in that first smile, resigning the vision,
The soul of my loved one replies to mine own;
Thank God for that moment of sweet recognition,
That over my heart like the morning light shone!

"SHE WILL BE MY OWN."
R. H. STODDARD.

THE walls of Cadiz front the shore,
And shimmer on the sea;
Her merry maids are beautiful,
But light as light can be.
They drop me billets through the post,
They meet me in the square,
And even follow me to mass,

And lift their veils in prayer.

But all their smiles and wanton arts
Are thrown away on me;
My heart is now an English girl's,
And she is o'er the sea.
My English love is o'er the sea,
But ere a month is flown,
The Spanish maids will be as far,
And she will be my own.

I SUNG TO HIM.*
MRS. HALL.

I SUNG to him! I dream he hears
The song he used to love;
And oft that blessed fancy cheers,
And bears my thoughts above.
Ye say, 'tis idle thus to dream—
But why believe it so?

It is the spirit's meteor gleam,
To soothe the pang of woe.

Love gives to nature's voice a tone
That true hearts understand-
The sky, the earth, the forest lone,
Are peopled by his wand;
Sweet fancies all our pulses thrill,
While gazing on a flower,

And from the gentle whisp'ring rill

Are heard the words of power.

*The American poetesses are fond of colouring the waters of their poesy with a tinge of sadness. They seem to revel in a lyric luxury of grief.

'TIS BUT THEE, LOVE, ONLY THEE.

I breathe the dear and cherish'd name,
And long-lost scenes arise;

Life's glowing landscape spreads the same,
The same Hope's kindling skies.
The violet bank, the moss-fringed seat,
Beneath the drooping tree,

The clock that chimed the hour to meet,
My buried love, with thee.

Oh! these are all before me, when
In fancy's realms I rove;
Why urge me to the world again ?
Why say the ties of love,

That death's cold, cruel grasp has riven,
Unite no more below?

I'll sing to him; for though in heaven,
He surely heeds my woe.

'TIS BUT THEE, LOVE, ONLY THEE.

LOUISA S. M'CORD.

WHERE the sunbeam glanceth brightest,
There, my love, I think on thee;
Where the summer breeze is lightest,
Still of thee, and only thee.

Where the gently murmuring stream
Lulls to soft and placid dream,
Who forever lingers near me?
Who but thee, love? only thee!

And if fear, or dark misgiving,
Hover round with evening's gloom,
Fancy's tissues darkly weaving,
Tracing sorrows yet to come;
Still one shadow lingering near,
Even scenes like these are dear-
Who the angel hovering near me?
Who but thee, love? only thee!
Thus in hope, and thus in sorrow,
Fancy paints thy shadow near,
Thou the brightner of each morrow,
Thou the soother of each care.
And the sun which gives me light,
And the star which gilds my night,
And the lingering hope to cheer me,
'Tis but thee, love, only thee!

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FOR THEE, LOVE, FOR THEE.
MRS. OSGOOD.

As the bud lingers and looks for the spring,
For her light fingers to open its wing;
Folding up proudly its fresh dew and bloom,
Wistfully hoarding its holy perfume;
All unelated by sunbeam or bee-
So my heart waited, looking for thee.
As the waves darkle till dawning of day,
Then with its sparkle go dancing away.
Silent in sorrow, or reckless in glee,

So my wild spirit watched, darling! for thee.
As the bird hushes its love-leaving breast
Till summer blushes about its warm nest-
Dreaming and sleeping 'neath winter's control,
Timidly keeping its song in its soul-

So have I kept, dear, my heart-music free,
So love has slept, dear, waiting for thee.
As the bark breathlessly floats for the gale
That shall give life to its languishing sail,
So my heart panted thy bark, love, to be-
So it lay idle, asking for thee.

As the star listens for night stealing up,
Ere the fire glistens within its gold cup,
Hiding till then in the air's azure sea,
So my heart listen'd for thee, love-thee!

HOW HAVE I THOUGHT OF THEE.*

MRS. EMBURY.

How have I thought of thee? as flies
The dove to seek her mate,
Trembling lest some rude hand has made
Her sweet home desolate;

Thus timidly I seek in thine,

The only heart that throbs with mine.

The gifted authoress of this song is a native of New York She wrote at an early age in the various periodicals under the name of "Ianthe," and in the year 1828 these contributions, with many other pieces, were collected into a volume. Many of her fugitive tales, sketches, songs, and poems, have been republished from time to time in England, and read with satisfaction. "Mrs. Embury resides at present in Brooklyn. Her many home-bred virtues and capabilities, her well-conducted household, and the happiness, harmony, and content which reign there, prove a delightful contradiction to the silly idea that women of genius cannot be women of domestic worth. But it is certainly true, as a noble writer of great penetration (Hannah More) affirms, that 'those women who are so swollen up with the conceit of talents, as to neglect the plain duties of life, will not often be found to be women of the best abilities.'

I WILL LOVE HER NO MORE.

How have I thought of thee? as turns
The flower, to meet the sun,

E'en though, when clouds and storms arise,
It be not shone upon;

Thus, dear one, in thine eye I see

The only light that beams for me.

How have I thought of thee? as dreams
The mariner of home,

When doomed o'er many a weary waste
Of waters yet to roam;

Thus doth my spirit turn to thee,
My guiding star o'er life's wild sea.

How have I thought of thee? as kneels
The Persian at the shrine
Of his resplendent god, to watch
His earliest glories shine;
Thus doth my spirit bow to thee,
My soul's own radiant deity.

I WILL LOVE HER NO MORE.

C. FENNO HOFFMAN.

I WILL love her no more-'tis a waste of the heart,
This lavish of feeling-a prodigal's part;

Who, heedless the treasure a life could not earn,
Squanders forth where he vainly may look for return.

I will love her no more; it is folly to give
Our best years to one, when for many we live.
And he who the world will thus barter for one,
I ween by such traffic must soon be undone.

I will love her no more; it is heathenish thus
To bow to an idol which bends not to us;

Which heeds not, which hears not, which recks not for aught,
That the worship of years to its altar hath brought.

I will love her no more; for no love is without
Its limit in measure, and mine hath run out;
She engrosseth it all, and till some she restore,
Than this moment I love her, how can I love more?

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