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Addressed to my wife,
We're wending to the altar, love, and there
Let us be solemn when we pledge the vow ; Look
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,
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 ;
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, not being paid to satirize or flatter,
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,
Yea-every flower that erst-time grew,
Lustre upon it ever new;
Yet sooner that she'd chance to fall
In thy displeasure ; rather still
And lose one jot of thy good will ;
Yet still this rhyme a page will fill ;-
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,
What joys in thee combine.
Of these on earth that roam,
To Christ, the Saviour, come!
Our Jesu's Promised Home!
When troubles come, their tempests ne'er
Shall tempt my feet to rove;
Invites to peace and love,
And sweet its precepts come,
To Christ, the Saviour come!
Our Jesu's Promised Home!