These words-the last farewell of loveWere better left unsaid; For soon, when thou shalt think of me, 'Twill be as of the dead. We have loved and we are parted, But yet cast on the words I trace As on some tale of love and faith, I saw thee and I loved thee- As high above humanity As heaven above the earth.. For the feeling grew to madness, All medicine above, And then I looked into my heart, And saw that it was love. We are parted by a strange decree-- I see thee as the erring see Their guardian angels part; As the wretch gives up the last life-hope That cheered his fainting heart; I look to thee as erst God's sons, Cast downwards for their sin, But go thy way, I would not pluck It would not make thee happier, Lone to a new existence, I hasten to decay, With none to smile, with none to cheer My solltary way; Save hope to meet thee yet above Far shall I wander, though to me What, for the wretch deprived of thee, He can have no ambition He will not strive for fame, THE WIDOW'S WOOER HE woos me with those honeyed words So sweet on every ear: He stands beside me when I sing And whispers in love's thrilling tones, He little knows what thoughts awake With every gentle word; How, by his looks and tones, the founts Of tenderness are stirred: The visions of my youth return, Joys far too bright to last, And while he speaks of future bliss, I think but of the past. Like lamps in eastern sepulchres, LAY. A LAY of love! ask yonder sea For wealth its waves have closed upon- A battle-shout from Marathon! Till fire from every glowing string Shall mingle with the flashing wine! The Theban lyre but to the sun Gave forth at morn its answering tone: So mine but echoed when the one, One sunlit glance was o'er it thrown. The Memnon sounds no more! my lyre A veil upon thy strings is flung : I may not wake the chords of fireThe words that burn upon my tongue. Fill high the cup! I may not singMy hands the crowning buds will twine! Pour-till the wreath I o'er it fling Shall mingle with the rosy wine! No lay of love! the lava-stream Hath left its trace on heart and brain! And twine his bald, old brow with flowers! Fill high! fill high! I may not sing- TO SOPHIA.-A VALENTINE. ONE smile of thine, dear lovely maid, What is this world, with all its toys, Wealth, like the gaudy butterfly, And grandeur, beauty, fame and power, They sink, in fate's unlucky hour, In dark oblivion's tide. But yours, dear maid, the charms which last, Good sense and virtue-hold them fast, Their perfume lasts for aye. And O, be mine the happy part, To share those charms with thee, Through life's short hour, joined hand and heart, Till heaven shall set us free! LINES TO FRANCES. I WOULD have sung of thee before, The song that friendship loves to sing; But envy's withering fingers tore From off my heart the willing string. All now is past, and I am free To wake my lyre to mirth or woe; When first we met, our hearts were gay But mine, since then, has throbbed to pain, Thou know'st not what it is to bear Was that the heart might break and die. No sorrow yet has filled thy breast- But thou, methinks, canst feel for those I know thou canst, for in thine eyes, Give me thy smile in lonely hour- I'LL THINK OF THEE! WHEN the moon doth rise on high, When the trees all bare appear, When spring doth come with lovely flowers, |