SONNET.

PERHAPS the lady of my love is now
Looking upon the skies. A single star
Is rising in the east, and from afar

Sheds a most tremulous lustre : silent night
Doth wear it like a jewel on her brow:
But see! it motions with its lovely light

Onward and onward through those depths of blue
To its appointed course, steadfast and true.
So, dearest, would I fain be unto thee
Steadfast for ever-like yon planet fair;
And yet more like art thou a jewel rare,
Oh! brighter than the brightest star to me.
Come hither, my young love, and I will wear
Thy beauty on my breast delightedly.

BARRY CORNWALL.

THE DIFFIDENE OF LOVE WHY should I blush to own I love ? 'Tis love that rules the realms above. Why should I blush to say to all That virtue holds my heart in thrall?

Why should I seek the thickest shade,
Lest Love's dear secret be betrayed?
Why the stern brow deceitful move,
When I am languishing with love?

Is it a weakness thus to dwell
On passion that I dare not tell?
Such weakness I would ever prove:
'Tis painful, but 'tis sweet to love!

HENRY KIRK WHITE.

Ay, it is Love's own tracing! every word

Of eloquence is written by his pen!

'Tis the heart's language-all thine ear hath heard (Like music from his tongue) is told again!

Each fondly-murmured sigh, each half-breathed vow

From his soul's depths are drawn, unsealed, acknowledged now i

With all a over's tenderness, he lays

His heart, his hopes, his fortunes, at thy feet;
Implores thee, by those well-remembered days

That ye have passed so oft in "converse sweet,"
By many a whispered word in wood or grove,
Not to reject his suit, or scorn his proffered love.
What does thy young heart prompt thee to reply!
By the carnation heightening on thy cheeks,
And the bright crystal in thy downcast eye-

More eloquent than words-'tis thus it speaks:
"Beloved one! each sigh thy breast hath known,
Found, though unheard by thee, an echo ir. my own."

Thou fair and lovely creature! Who may tell
All the fond thoughts that crowd upon thy soul?
Who analyse the varied hopes that swell

Thy young untutored heart? or who control
The brilliant visions floating o'er thy brain,

That like spring flowers, once crushed, can never blo again?

Ah! through life's chequered range, but one such hour
Of cloudless radiance shines upon the breast;
'Tis that when Love comes with a conqueror's power,
And reigns sole monarch of the heart confessed;
When (like the Indian wood of sacred fame)
The bosom's lord pours forth its sweetness to the flame.

In after years a thousand passions take

Possession of the soul; with cunning art They win its fond idolatry, and make

Themselves a shrine to rest in! To the heart Love comes but once, like blossom. to the rose, The deep soul-searching flame our first affection knows. Ay, ye may smile, ye stoics! but 'tis true, And not the fiction of a poet's brain; The heart's first bloom of love, like morning dew, Once brushed, ne'er sparkles on the flower again, Till the long day is closed in evening skies, And on the drooping plant another morn arise ! MRS. C. B. WILSON

UNREQUITED LOVE.

SISTER! Since I met thee last,
O'er thy brow a change hath past.
In the softness of thine eyes
Deep and still a shadow lies;
From thy voice there thrills a tone
Never to thy childhood known;
Through thy soul a storm hath moved
-Gentle sister, thou hast loved!

Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught
Hues too bright from troubled thought
Far along the wandering stream,
Thou art followed by a dream;
In the woods and valleys lone
Music haunts thee not thine own:
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain?
-Sister, thou hast loved in vain!

Tell me not the tale, my flower!
On my bosom pour that shower!
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted;
Tell me not of young hopes blasted;
Wring not forth one burning word,
Let thy heart no more be stirred!
Home alone can give thee rest.
-Weep, sweet sister, on my breast!

LOVE SYMPATHIES.

HEMANS.

OH! for some fairy talisman to conjure

Up to these longing eyes the form they pine for!
And yet in love there's no such word as absence!
The loved one, like our guardian spirit, walks
Beside us ever,-shines upon the beam-
Perfumes the flower-and sighs in every breeze!
Its presence gives such beauty to the world
That all things beautiful its likeness are;

And aught in sound most sweet, to sight most fair,
Breathes with its voice, or like its aspect smiles.
SIR E. L. BULWER.

THE TRYSTING HOUR.

THE night-wind's Eolian breezes,
Chase melody o'er the grove,
The fleecy clouds wreathing in tresses,
Float rosy the woodlands above;
Then tarry no longer, my true love,

The stars hang their lamps in the sky, 'Tis lovely the landscape to view, love, When each bloom has a tear in its eye.

So stilly the evening is closing

Bright dew-drops are heard as they fall, Eolian whispers reposing,

Breathe softly, I hear my love call; Yes! the light fairy step of my true love, The night-breeze is wafting to me; Over heath-bell and violet blue, love, Perfuming the shadowy lea.

Jue,

THOMAS LYLE.

It is a blessing that is felt

But by united minds that flow,
As sunbeams into sunbeams melt,
To light a frozen world below.
There is a love that o'er the war

Of jarring passion pours its light,
And sheds its influence like a star
That brightest burns in darkest night.
It is a love best known to those
Who hand in hand, amidst the strife
Together have withstood their foes,
Together shared the storms of life.

It is so true, so fixed, so strong,

It parts not with the parting breath; In the soul's flight 't is borne along,

And hold's the heart's strings e'en in death

'Tis never quenched by sorrow's tide ;-
No, 't is a flame caught from above,—
A tie that death can not divide ;-
'Tis the bright torch of wedded love.
But there is one love, not of earth,
Though sullied by the streaming tear
It is a star of heavenly birth,

And only shines unshaken there.
'Tis when this clay resigns its breath,
And the soul quits its frail abode,
That rising from the bed of death,
This love is pure-the love of God.
M. A. BROWNL.

On! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine to the heart;
As if the soul that moment caught
Some treasure, it through life had sought-

As if the very lips and eyes,
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then.

So beamed on me thy speech and tone
When first on me they breathed and shone;
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if loved for years.

Then come with me, if thou hast known
No other flame, nor rudely thrown
A gem away, which thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy breast be worn.
Come! if the love thou bear'st for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee;
Fresh as the fountain under ground
When first 't is by the lapwing found.
But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipped image from its base,
To give to me the ruined place-

Then, fare thee well!-I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake
Where thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine!

LOVE.

THERE is a love so fond,

No art the magic tie can sever;

'T is ever beauteous, ever new;

Its chain once linked is linked for ever.

There is a love, but passion's beam,—

Too fond, too warm, too bright to last,— The phrensy of a fevered dream,

That burns a moment, then is past. 'Tis like the lightning's lurid glare,

That streams its blaze of fatal light,
Flames for an instant through the air,
Then sinks away in deepest night.
There is a love whose feeling rolls
In pure anruffled calmness on,-
The meeting of congenial souls,

Of hearts whose currents flow in one.

T. MOORE

LOVE NURSED BY SOLITUDE.

YOUNG Love, thou art belied: they speak of thee,
And couple with thy mention misery;
Talk of the broken heart, the wasted bloom,
The spirit blighted, and the early tomb;
As if these waited on thy golden lot,―

They blame thee for the faults that thou hast not.
Art thou to blame for that they bring to thee,
The soil and weight of their mortality?
How can they hope that ever links will d
Formed, as they form them now, of the harsh gold!

Or worse than even this, how can they think
That vanity will bind the failing link?

How can they dream that thy sweet life will bear
Crowds', palaces', and cities' heartless air?
When looks and thoughts alike must feel the chain,
And naught of life is real but its pain;
Where the young spirit's high imaginings
Are scorned and cast away as idle things;
Where, think or feel, you are foredoomed to be
A marvel, and a sign for mockery;

Where none must wander from the beaten road,—
All alike champ the bit and feel the goad.
It is not made for thee, young Love!-away!
To where the green earth laughs to the clear day;
To the deep valley, where a thousand trees
Keep a green court for fairy revelries ;-
To some small island in a lonely lake,
Where only swans the diamond waters break;
Where the pine hangs in silence o'er the tide,
And the stream gushes from the mountain side;

These, Love, are haunts for thee: where canst thou brood

With thy sweet wings furled-but in solitude!

LANDON.

Then, with the glory from the rose,

With the sparkle from the stream,
With the light thy rainbow-presence throws
Over the poet's dream;

With all the Elysian hues

Thy pathway that suffuse,

With joy, with music, from the fading grove,
Take me, too, heavenward, on thy wing, sweet L
HEMANL

It is the soft and silent hour

When mighty Love hath mightiest power
To bind the heart, sodue the will,
Bid Reason's cold stern voice be still.
Oh! never sounds in Beauty's ear
The whispered word so sweet and dear,
As when the gathering shadows hide
The tell-tale cheek, which Feeling's tide,
In one full, happy, joyous gush,
Hath teinted with a crimson blush!
So calm, so still, the scene around,
Almost the heart's own echoes sound!
How many a breast, on eve like this,
Is steeped in rapture-filled with bliss!
MRS. WALKER

GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.

"Leave me not!" was still

THE burden of their music; and I knew
The lay which Genius, in its loneliness,

Its own still world amid the o'erpeopled world, *
Hath ever breathed to Love.

They crown me with the glistening crown
Borne from a deathless tree;

I hear the pealing music of renown-
Oh, Love! forsake me not!

Mine were a lone dark lot,

Bereft of thee!

They tell me that my soul can throw

A glory o'er the earth;

From thee, from thee is caught that golden glow,
Shed by thy gentle eyes,

It gives to flower and skies

A bright new birth!

Thence gleams the path of morning

Over the kindling hills a sunny zone!

Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning
With lustre not its own!

Thence every wood-recess
Is filled with loveliness,

Each bower to ring-doves and dim violets known.

I see all beauty by the ray

That streameth from thy smile:

Oh! bear it, bear it not away!

Can that sweet light beguile?

Too pure, too spirit-like it seems,

To linger long by earthly streams;
I clasp it with the alloy
Of fear midst quivering joy,

Yet must I perish if the gift depart

Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!

SLIGHTED LOVE.

MAY slighted woman turn, AND as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her tendencies again? Oh, no! by all her loveliness, by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no! Make her a slave, steal from her rosy cheek By needless jealousies; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness—yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But, oh! estage her once, it boots not how, By wrong or silence, any thing that tells A change has come upon your tenderness, And there is not a high thing out of heaven Her pride o'ermastereth not!

N. P. WILLIS

THE MINSTREL'S LOVE.

HE loved, as minstrel-elf must prove.For song itself is born of love

So the young glow and metting shower
Of April animate the flower-

Perfume and suppliance of an hour;-
Too exquisitely loved to last,
Such curse upon the lyre is cast:
Brief must they feel who feel the spell
Of love too sensitively well,
A's fires of sudden vividness
Exhausted by their own excess.
And such the wreath his passion braided
For thousand bosoms, bright but vain,
Like cistus-bloom scarce blown till faded,
Scarce faded till full blown again,
Short-lived alike the bliss and pain.
Thus still adored he, still endured,
Wandering for ever, never cured.

ISHMAEL FITZADAM

WOMAN IS THE LIGHT OF LOVE. O WOMAN! Woman! thou art formed to bless The heart of restless man, to chase his care, And charm existence by thy loveliness:

Bright as the sunbeam, as the morning fair.

If but thy foot fall on a wilderness,

Flowers spring, and shed their roseate blossoms there, Shrouding the thorns that on thy pathway rise, And scattering o'er it hues of Paradise.

Thy voice of love is music to the ear,

Soothing and soft, and gentle as the stream

That strays 'mid summer flowers; thy glittering tear
Is mutely eloquent; thy smile a beam

Of light ineffable, so sweet, so dear,

It wakes the heart from sorrow's darkest dream,
Shedding a hallowed lustre o'er our fate,
And when it beams we are not desolate.

No! no! when woman smiles we feel a charm
Thrown bright around us, binding us to earth ;
Her tender accents breathing forth the balm

Of pure affection, give to transport birth;
Then life's wide sea is billowless and calm:
O lovely woman! thy consummate worth
Is far above thy frailty-far above

All earthly praise-Thou art the Light of Love.
J. BIRD.

SONG OF THE FORSAKEN.

AND will she love thee as well as I?

Will she do for thee what I have done?
See all the pomps of the world pass by,
And look only for thee-beloved one?

Will she feel when another pronounces thy name
All the thrilling sensations that I have done?
Pride when they praise thee, regret when they blame,
And tenderness always-beloved one?

Will she watch when a cloud passes over thy brow.
And strive to chase it-as I have done?
Forgetting all but the thought that now
It is hers to console thee-beloved one?
Will she, undoubting, consent to resign
Friends long cherished-as I have done?
Renounce them, forget them, nor ever repine,
Since thou art with her-beloved one?
And thou-wilt not thou feel a pang of regret,
Thus remembering all that I have done?
Have done! though forsaken would do so yet,
And am thine, and thine only-beloved one!
HON. MRS. NORTON.

THE HOUR OF LOVE.

Ir is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high notes are heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows

Seem sweet in every whispered word;
And gentle winds and waters near
Make music to the listening ear.

FRAGMENT.

I'LL lay me on the wintry lea

Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,

And in the heaven the clear obscure

So softly dark, and darkly pure,
Which follows the decline of day

When twilight melts beneath the moon away.

SONNET.

SWEET as the cry of joy, or as the song

Of tender birds-like the beloved tone Of one who loves us, loved by us aloneSuch are the honeyed accents of thy tongue; Like Orpheus' lyre, so eloquent, so strong:

BYRON.

Such sounds the muse herself might not disown, So speaks harmonious, her most favored son, And pours the rapturous tide of verse along. Oh! if fond love should once that voice inspire, And breathe the mingling harmony of sighs,

The soul of such rare music ne'er could tire; 1: speaks the ecstacy of Paradise.

Sure then, thy sweetness might a mortal move,
And win at once to more than mortal love.

THE LOVE BORN OF SORROW.
OUR love has been no summer-flower,
For joy's bright chaplet braided;
Drooping when tempests darkly lower,
By grief's bleak winter faded.

We have not loved as those who plight
Their troth in sunny weather,

While leaves are green, and skies are bright,
To tread life's path together.

But we have loved as those who tread
The thorny path of sorrow,

With clouds o'ercast-and cause to dread
Yet deeper gloom to-morrow.

That thorny path, those cloudy skies,
Have drawn our spirits nearer.
And rendered us, by holiest ties,
Each to the other dearer!

Love born in hours of joy and mirth,
With mirth and joy may perish;
That to which darker days gave birth
Still more and more we cherish.

It looks beyond the clouds of time,
Through Death's dim shadowy portal;
Made by adversity sublime,

By faith and hope immortal!

PERHAPS I LOVE.

PERHAPS I love

B. BARTON.

To visit my heart's treasure by that light
When misers seek their buried hoards; to steal
Upon the loved one, like a mermaid's song,
Unseen and floating between sea and sky;
To creep upon her in love's loveliest hour,
Not in her daylight beauty with the glare
Of the bright sun around her; but thus pure,
And white, and delicate, under the cool moon
Or lamp of alabaster. Thus I love

To think of thee, thou dear one! thus with flowers
About thee, and fresh air, and such a light,
And such a stillness; thus I dream of thee!

And sleep amid the cauld and weet; And ere another's bride I be

Oh! bring to me my winding sheet! What can a helpless lassie do,

When ilka friend would prove ner foe, Would gar her break her dearest vow, And wed with ane she canna loe? ROBERT TANNAHILL

WHERE is the heart that hath not bowed,
A slave, eternal love, to thee?
Look on the cold, the gay, the proud,

And is there one among them free?
The cold, the proud-oh! Love has turned
The marble till with fire it burned;
The gay, the young-alas! that they
Should ever bend beneath thy sway!
Look on the cheek the rose might own,
The smile around like sunshine thrown;
The rose, the smile alike are thine,
To fade and darken at thy shrine.
And what must love be in a heart

All passion's fiery depths conealing, Which has in its minutest part, More than another's depth of feeling?

LANDON.

GOD gives us Love. Something to love, He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off and love is left alone!

TENNYSON.

L'ABSENCE ET LE RETOUR.

Il faut l'avoir connu l'affreux malheur de vivre loin de ce qu'on aime, pour pouvoir se faire une idée des ravisse mens qu'éprouve notre ame, lorsqu'on lui rend le bien qu'elle avoit perdu. Il faut avoir repandu les larmes amères de l'absence pour sentir toute la volupté des douces larmes du retour. Je te plains, malheureux amant, qu'un sort cruel a forcé de quitter l'objet de tes vœux. Chaque pas que tu fais ajoute à tes maux; chaque heure te rap pelle un plaisir perdu: tu calcules avec désespoir tous les Instans qui s'écouleront avant la fin de ton exil; tu crois les abréger en les recomptant. Tu portes sans cesse les yeux sur le chemin qui conduit aux lieux où tu laissas ton cœur; tu le mesure avec effroi; et le voyageur que ta decouvres sur cette route te semble jouir d'un destin plus ber reux que celui des rois. Je te plains: mais que tu seras digne d'envie le jour où tu revoleras vers elle! le jour où, reconnaissant de loin sa maison, tu la verras attendre l'heureux instant qui doit payer tant de chagrins! Ah! cet instant - s'il se prolongeoit, tu ne pourrois le supporter; ton ame, qui trouva de la force contre les maux, serait ac cablée de tant de bonheur.