Addressed to my Wife, On the Morning of our Wedding Day, 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 gladness and all joy ; Nature's whito robe appears ono dazzling rem ; Each gurgling fountain shows some glittring 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. If thou canst then restrain the rebel tear, Still pledge it not in thoughtless apathy; 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 "Tis registered in heaven, and angels keep 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. -Byron. Since poetry is all the rage, A poet I'm constrained to be; Then cancel them and censure me; Still in this versifying age 'Tis hard to know what pleaseth thee Wit, 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, 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; Sweet maid, my muse such grandeur never knows. Yet sooner that she'd chance to fall In thy displeasure; rather still Than she should 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. My Promised Home, An effort to render a sweet air subservient to a good purpose. Air-"My Highland Home." My Promised Home, where angels dwell, But they who've known thy bliss can tell And oh, how much beyond the mind The happiness of those who find That heaven-their Promised Home. Then leave the world and all that's dear! Enjoy his smile ;-that smile shall cheer When troubles come, their tempests ne'er 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 K |