The Bride.

The marriage vow is spoken,

And another claims her now.

Oh, the soft deep look of the azure eye

As it drinks in the fervid extacy
That springs from possession of those we love!

The glance, like a beam on some fading flower,

That breathes it to life at the noontide bourgAll proved that her bright wreath of bliss they wove.

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 ringHer emblem of endless peace to bide.

Her hair wore a rose that o'erhung her brow,

As clear and as pure as her virgin vow,
But not, like her passion, with ceaseless bloom.

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 fied,

When dark romance and chivalry Called up the spirits of the dead

To join in war's wild revelry.
The times are gone when trumpet's tongue
Could call to arms the old, the young ;
Could to the field of blood and strife,
From home, from friends, from much-lov'd wife,

And from th' endearing babe's caress,
Who clambering to his knee had clung,
Or round his neck had fondly hung,
Could the fond father snatch away,
And even could forbid him stay
One moment, while to heaven he'd pray

That smiling babe to bless.
Still, still there is a sound can make
A Briton from his slumbers wake,

Even tho' no foe unsheathe the brand,
Nor menaced is his native land.
The Union's voice his breast can steel

To minor sympathy,
Quell each emotion that we feel

In listless apathy;
Nay even could hurry to its Board

The Lover from the altar side,
While scarce deplored,

Though long betrothed, he left the bride His heart so fondly had adored. Love's blandishments were all in vain, With ease he broke the young God's chain,

And flew from “home and beauty;"
To aid the UNION's honoured cause,
Firm to uphold its rights and laws,

He nobly did his duty.
Then crown him not with simple bays,
But yield him all his hard-earned praise
For stern devotion such as this ;

And let each good man cry,
“Oh for one thousand hearts like his,

Ten thousand to defy!”

Home.

They talk to me of happy homes,

Of relatives and of friends, Where fireside chat of days gone by

A holy influence lends.
They speak of hearts united long,

Which kindred links combine,--Alas! no sympathetic chord

Responsive beats in mine.

Since boyhood's wild extatic dream

First tempted me to roam,
In desert, mountain, city, plain,

I never found a home.
I've travelled o’er a thousand miles

In sunshine and in shade ;
Yet seldom sung my vespers where

My orizons were made.

When night hath spread her sable veil

O’er nature's smiling face ;
I dream of days when I could claim

A home,-a resting place.
No busy thoughts of future ill

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