The Bride. The marriage vow is spoken, And another claims her now. Oh, the soft deep look of the azure eye That springs from possession of those we love! There was joy in her smile, and it shed around The benignant warmth of the heart, tho' drown'd In the moist spring rain of a chrystal tear, That seemed from her spirits' deep bliss to shine, With a lustre and sparkling almost divine,Oh, it told us that he was how thrillingly dear! There were brilliants, a brooch in her snowy breast, But they stood not the diamond's boasted test, For the bright clear ray was not their own. As the sun lends his rays to the chaste cold moon, When down she looked, they betrayed the boon,——— When she raised her eyes, all their charms had flown. There were fair ones there, but she seemed the queen In that gladsome group, by her lofty mien, For she moved like an Eastern Sultan's bride. As she leaned on his arm, that fairy thing, Intense was her gaze on the bridal ring— Her emblem of endless peace to bide. Her hair wore a rose that o'erhung her brow, May her joy, as that rose, be with purity bound; And should his brow ever with care be crowned, May her smile, like the morning, dispel the gloom! Epithalamic Ode, IN HONOUR OF MR. W-. Dedicated to the Letter-press Printers of Lancaster. Amongst the many recorded instances of devotedness to the interests of the printing profession displayed by its members, perhaps that which gave rise to the following lines stands most prominent. A young man at Lancaster, who had been appointed delegate from the Typographical Society of that town to the Biennial Meeting for trades' purposes held in Leeds (June, 1842,) was married on the Saturday, and actually set off from beside the girl of his choice on the following day, reaching Leeds in time to be at the earliest sitting of the Delegates on Monday. To his honour be it spoken, he remained till the breaking up of the Convention on Thursday. Land of our sires! the days are fled, The times are gone when trumpet's tongue Could to the field of blood and strife, From home, from friends, from much-lov'd wife, Who clambering to his knee had clung, Still, still there is a sound can make A Briton from his slumbers wake, Even tho' no foe unsheathe the brand, The Union's voice his breast can steel Quell each emotion that we feel Nay even could hurry to its Board Though long betrothed, he left the bride His heart so fondly had adored. Love's blandishments were all in vain, Firm to uphold its rights and laws, Then crown him not with simple bays, But yield him all his hard-earned praise And let each good man cry, "Oh for one thousand hearts like his, Home. They talk to me of happy homes, They speak of hearts united long, Alas! no sympathetic chord Since boyhood's wild extatic dream In desert, mountain, city, plain, I've travelled o'er a thousand miles When night hath spread her sable veil I dream of days when I could claim Or future fortune then Could check the gushing joy of youth, That went, and came again. But now a wanderer on the earth, No biding place is mine,. E |