CERTAIN PLEASANT VERSES TO THE LADY OF

MY HEART.

THE murmur of the merry brook,
As gushingly and free.

It wimples with its sun-bright look,
Far down yon sheltered lea,
Humming to every drowsy flower
A low, quaint lullaby,

Speaks to my spirit, at this hour,

Of Love and thee.

The music of the gay green wood,
When every leaf and tree

Is coaxed by winds of gentlest mood,

To utter harmony;

And the small birds that answer make

To the wind's fitful glee,

In me most blissful visions wake,

Of Love and thee.

The rose perks up its blushing cheek,

So soon as it can see

то THE LADY OF MY Ꮋ Ꭼ Ꭺ Ꭱ Ꭲ .

Along the eastern hills, one streak
Of the Sun's majesty:

Laden with dewy gems, it gleams
A precious freight to me,

For each pure drop thereon me seems
A type of thee.

And when, abroad in summer morn,
I hear the blythe bold bee

Winding aloft his tiny horn,

(An errant knight perdy,)

That winged hunter of rare sweets
O'er many a far country,

To me a lay of love repeats,
Its subject-thee.

And when, in midnight hour, I note

The stars so pensively,

In their mild beauty, onward float

Through heaven's own silent sea;

My heart is in their voyaging

To realms where spirits be,

But its mate, in such wandering,
Is ever thee!

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то THE LADY OF MY Ꮋ Ꭼ Ꭺ Ꭱ Ꭲ .

But O, the murmur of the brook,

The music of the tree;

The rose with its sweet shamefast look,

The booming of the bee;

The course of each bright voyager
In heaven's unmeasured sea,

Would not one heart-pulse of me stir,
Loved I not thee!

BENEATH A PLACID BROW.

BENEATH a placid brow.

And tear-unstained cheek,

To bear as I do now

A heart that well could break;

To simulate a smile

Amid the wrecks of grief,

To herd among the vile,

And therein seek relief,For the bitterness of thought Were joyance dearly bought.

When will man learn to bear His heart nailed on his breast, With all its lines of care

In nakedness confessed?
Why, in this solemn mask
Of passion-wasted life,
Will no one dare the task,

To speak his sorrows rife?
Will no one bravely tell,
His bosom is a hell?

I scorn this hated scene

Of masking and disguise,

Where men on men still gleam,
With falseness in their eyes;
Where all is counterfeit,

And truth hath never say; Where hearts themselves do cheat, Concealing hope's decay.

And writhing at the stake,
Themselves do liars make.

Go, search thy heart, poor fool! And mark its passions well; 'T were time to go to school,

'T were time the truth to tell, 'T were time this world should cast Its infant slough away,

And hearts burst forth at last

Into the light of day;

'T were time all learned to be Fit for Eternity!