If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,

How gayly would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,

But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind, approving eye,
Thy meek, attentive ear.

But when at morn and eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on! then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still;

On broad Hindostan's sultry meads,

O'er black Almorah's hill.

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, Nor mild Malwah detain;

For sweet the bliss us both awaits

By yonder Western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,
Across the dark blue sea;

But never were hearts so light and gay

As then shall meet in thee.

FLOWER OF MY COLD AND DARKENED YEAR.

BY THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY.

LOWER of my cold and darkened year!

FLO

Sweet fount amid my spirit's dearth!

Be near me with the smiles that cheer

The happy home and quiet hearth;
That still 'mid winter and 'mid night,
Like fairies play their sunny part,
To turn the darkness into light,.

And make it summer in the heart!

What though my early hopes have flown,
Like Noah's bird that came not back,

And many a faded leaf has strown,
All-all too soon my summer track;
My heart has treasures of its own,

Shrines on which ruin can not fall,
And cherished there, thy look and tone
Are birds and flowers, and hopes and all!

Oh, blessed time of smiles and tears

Ere smiles or tears are mournful things—
Of hopes, ere hopes are born with fears—
And wishes-that have all got wings!
Oh, could I tread again youth's track,
With thee-belovèd as thou art!

But who shall bring the shadow back,
Upon the dial of my heart!

Forward, like rivers to the main,
Time passes on-forever on !—
The moon shall never pause again
Upon the vale of Ajalon !—
The sun comes o'er the eastern hill,
On Gideon-as in days gone by,
But that high voice has long been still
That bade him linger in the sky!

Yet, thou hast been to me a beam,
Pure as that bright and angel form
That stood beside the troubled stream,
And gathered healing from its storm!
Thy love-when all was strife around-
Like music sung my soul to rest,
And thou hast fondly sought-and found
A thousand fountains in my breast!

Oh-for the bloom that thou hast shed,
Along my wasted breast and brow-
May flowers spring up beneath thy tread,
And make thy life-path bright as now !
Still may thy fancy daily fleet,

As here 'mid glad and happy themes, And visions-sweet, as thou art sweetCome gliding to thy nightly dreams!

May mercy shield thy breast and brain, (Descending like a gentle dew,) Alike from grief's and pleasure's pain,

-For Pleasure has her poisons too!

Bliss-like the spirit's flaming sword-
Consuming from its very light,

And hopes that-like the prophet's gourd-
Grow up to perish in a night!

May years pass o'er thee like the breeze
That sweeps along a spicy vale,

That bows, but will not break, the trees,
And draws fresh perfume with each gale!
And, when thy wintry day draws in,

Light-precious as thyself-be given,
To cheer thee through this darker scene,
And point thee to thy native heaven!

CHARACTER OF A WIFE.

FROM PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE," BY SIR HENRY TAYLOR.

HE was a creature framed by love divine

SHE

For mortal love to musen life away

In pondering her perfections; so unmoved

Amidst the world's contentions, if they touched

No vital chord, nor troubled what she loved,
Philosophy might look her in the face;

And, like a hermit stooping to the well

That yields him sweet refreshment, might therein
See but his own serenity reflected,

With a more heavenly tenderness of blue!

Yet, whilst the world's ambitions, empty cares,

Its small disquietude, and insect stings
Disturbed her never, she was one made up
Of feminine affections, and her life

Was one full stream of love from fount to sea.

THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

OW many summers, love,

HOW

Have I been thine?

How many days, thou dove,

Hast thou been mine?
Time, like the winged wind
When 't bends the flowers,

Hath left no mark behind,

To count the hours!

Some weight of thought, though loth,

On thee he leaves;

Some lines of care round both

Perhaps he weaves;

Some fears a soft regret

For joys scarce known;

Sweet looks we half forget

All else is flown!

Ah! with what thankless heart

I mourn and sing!

Look, where our children start,

Like sudden spring!

With tongues all sweet and low,

Like a pleasant rhyme,

They tell how much I owe

To thee and time!