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THE POETICAL KEEPSAKE.

WE HAVE PARTED.

WE have parted, but still in my bosom there linger
A thought, a remembrance, a prayer it would breathe;
They come like the shadows that greet us at twilight,
The smiles of the sun on the bosom of eve.

At times I forget thee, and like the freed songster,
I sing in my rapture some wild blended strain;
But ah! ere its echo has died in the distance,

Some object recalls me to reason again.

A sigh bursting forth from the soul's deep emotion,
A tear gushing up from the heart's burning well,
A flower that you love smiling sweetly upon me,
Awakens more anguish than language can tell.

Parted! O say that it is but a fancy,

A phantom that flits through my half-maddened brain, A spirit of darkness that whispers in envy

That we who have loved are as strangers again!

O that some pitying angel would show thee
The tears of repentance I've shed o'er the past,
That thou might'st receive me again to thy bosom,
To tell me that all was forgiven at last!

There may come a moment, a time in which sorrow
Shall enter thy breast, sweeping pleasure away;
And then with what anguish thy memory will ponder
The prayer I have uttered for mercy to-day.

How cold must the heart be that heaves not to pity,
When tears of the contrite are seeking its smile;
How dead to compassion the soul turning coldly
Away from a brother confessing his crime.

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Farewell! there is sadness attending its utterance,
No hearts that have breathed it in love meet again;
But where it is lisped by the being deserted,

Ah! where are there thrills of such exquisite pain?

Farewell! and may Heaven's good angels protect thee!
May thy dark eyes ne'er shine through a grief-started tear!
Save those which will flow as ye muse in lone sadness
On an hour that you named as one that was dear.

WHY SHOULD YOU NOT BELIEVE ME?

WHY should you not believe me?
Why should I swear again?

Why should you, dear, thus tease me,
Increasing but my pain?

Thou knowest that I love thee,

Yea, love thee fondly too :
Thou peerless winsome charmer,
I ne'er can love but you.

By all my stolen glances,

Fresh burning from the heart,
By all the burning tear-drops
Which to my eyelids start;
By all my bitter sighings,

By all my hope and fear,
My thoughts are of thee, dearest,
Of thee, of thee, my dear.

Why, even when I stray, love,
My thoughts to thee belong;
I always lisp thy praise, love,
In one continued song,
My mind is ever wandering,
My heart is ever free;
Sleeping, waking, all my thoughts
Are centred upon thee.

Then, cease, my love, to doubt me,
Let faith its light impart;

And shed its rays around thee,

And soothe thy doubting heart.
For thou knowest that I love thee,
Yea, love thee fondly too;
And there is not another

I e'er can love but you.

STANZAS.

O, BID me seek some trackless sea,
Where winds and waves are roaming free;
With no green isle to bud and bloom,
No sunlight mid the tempest's gloom!
And where no rainbow hues are hung,

To cheer my lone distracted heart;
But ah! let not my soul be wrung,
To think we must for ever part.

No, not for ever! though I go
Where tower th' eternal hills of snow,
Where no rich gleam has ever smiled
Mid the dark forest's trackless wild-
'Twill be with joy, if I can think
That once again thy angel tone,
Will by its magic sweetness link,
My being's music to thine own!

Though grief awhile may dim the wreath
In which the sweetest roses breathe,
Yet hope's own star with pleasant ray,
Can dash the southern dews away.
Then tell me not that all our love,
Though shaded now by mist and tears,
Must fade-since mildly shines above
A beam to gild our future years.

TRUE LOVE.

TRUE love is like the damask roso,
The same in life and death;
In bloom it scents its native air-
Sweet is its dying breath.

True love is like the lucid beam
That o'er the diamond plays;
As sparkling on the shroud of night,
As in the noontide blaze.

True love is like the silver stream,
Which sometimes hides in earth;
As pure it rolls through sunless cells,
As when it leaped to the earth.

True love is like the star that chants
On high its joyous hymn;
Nor less its glory when it sinks
Below its darkling rim.

True love is like all precious things,

Which flow, and gleam, and thrive,

Yet good, and strong, and firm, the storm Of fitful time survive.

SONG.

Ask not from me the sportive jest,
The mirthful jibe, the gay reflection;
These social baubles fly the breast

That owns the sway of pale Dejection.

Ask not from me the changing smile,
Hope's sunny glow, Joy's glittering token;
It can not now my griefs beguile—
My soul is dark, my heart is broken!

Wit can not cheat my heart of woe,
Flattery wakes no exultation,
And Fancy's flash but serves to show
The darkness of my desolation.

By me no more in masking guise

Shall thoughtless repartee be spoken;

My mind a hopeless ruin lies

My soul is dark, my heart is broken!

A NAME IN THE SAND.

ALONE I walked on the ocean strand;
A pearly shell was in my hand :
I stooped and wrote upon the sand

My name-the year-the day.
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast:
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And washed my lines away.