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Addressed to my wife,
On the Morning of our Wedding Day,

December, 1840.

We're wending to the altar, love, and there

Let us be solemn when we pledge the vow ; Look

up

to heaven for blessing on the prayer, And hope life's sun may shine as bright as now He beams upon us unalloyed by care,

Undimm'd by sorrow's cloud upon thy brow,
Let us remember that our bridal hymn
Is echoed by a choir of cherubim.

To-day we are all gladnees and all joy }

Nature's whito jobs appeari one dayaling som } Each gurgiing fountain shows some slittring toy

That sparkles like a lustrous diadem ;
But the Spring sun these brilliants will destroy,

And Earth's white mantle will depart with them Shall we thus like the varying seasons change ? Shall Sun or Storm our mutual love derange,

To-morrow, fortune, that now seems to smile.

May frown in thunder-storms upon our head ; Say canst thou adverse hours of grief beguile,

And the scant board with cheerful feeling spread ? Wilt thou indulge no murmurings the while

Should sickness hover o'er a sleepless bed ? If thou canst then restrain the rebel tear, Breathe thy vow firmly,—thou hast uought to fear. Still pledge it not in thoughtless apathy;

The fate of years hangs on the awful word. And yet I would not wish those eyes to see

Embowered in gloom ; for that would ill accord With what we hope and wish our lives to be,

Blest with the joys Heaven fails not to afford (And which we only catch in giympses now) To those who truly keep the Marriage Vow.

Say it not lightly over, like some spell

That may be broken by a passing shower; It is a sacred bond that hears no knell

Until the toll at the last parting hour On the grave's brink ;-and ev'n that long farewell

Bursts not its pure intensity or power. 'Tis registered in heaven, and angels keep The record, till we wake from deatli's last sleep.

And should we both be spared till ruthless time

Has sunk his furrows in our glowing cheek,-Should we pass buoyant youth and active prime, Till our strength fails us, and the pulse grows weak; May we look back to this morn's merry chime,

And of its hallowed act with gladness speak. Then, ere we reach yon church, here let us both Put up a prayer for aid to keep our troth.

Lines written in an Album.

A poet. This last was of great fame, and liked to show it.

His verses rarely wanted their due feet;
And for his theme,,he seldom sung below it;

And, not being paid to satirize or flatter,
As the psalm says—“indited a good matter."

- Byron.

Since poetry is all the rage,

A poet I'm constrained to be ; If my lines do not suit the page,

Then cancel them and censure me ; Still in this versifying age

'Tis hard to know what pleaseth theeWit, sentiment, satire, or badinage.

On one side lady's tiny hand

Hath evidently held the pen ;Ladies have ever at command

A vein of satire 'gainst the men ; And there's a law in every land,

(At least in nine of every ten,) To let the fair unfettered wield the wand.

And here again a lofty name,

Affixed to neatly-written lines, Forbids me seek Parnassian fame ;

And each new beauty but combines To fright my muse to whence she came ;

Canst thou forgive if she delines, For sure her humble lay no praise can claim.

Where colours of the pink, the rose,

And violet breathing Heaven's own blue,
A tint of every flower that grows,

Yea-every flower that erst-time grew,
Adds beauty to thy book, and throws

Lustre upon it ever new;
Sweet maid, my muse such grandeur never knows.

Yet sooner that she'd chance to fall

In thy displeasure ; rather still
Than she slould dally at thy call,

And lose one jot of thy good will ;
Tho' neither theme nor madrigal,

Yet still this rhyme a page will fill ;-
"Twere better, too, to write than none at all.

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My Promised Wome,

An effort to render a sweet air subservient to a good purpose.

Air-"My Highland Home.”

My Promised Home, where angels dwel,

And saints in glory shine,
But they who've known thy bliss can tell

What joys in thee combine.
And oh, how much beyond the mind

Of these on earth that roam,
The happiness of those who find
That heaven--their Promised Home.
Then leave the world and all that's dear!

To Christ, the Saviour, come!
Enjoy his smile ;—that smile shall cheer

Our Jesu's Promised Home!

When troubles come, their tempests ne'er

Shall tempt my feet to rove;
The Gospel, with its wonted care,

Invites to peace and love,
For pleasant is the voice it breathes,

And sweet its precepts come,
To those who love the graceful wreaths
Around our Promised Home.
Then leave the world and all that's dear;

To Christ, the Saviour come!
Enjoy his smile,—that smile shall cheer

Our Jesu's Promised Home!

K

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