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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 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.
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 glympses 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 death'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 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,
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 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,
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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