A HEALTH.

I FILL this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone:

A woman - of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,
"Tis less of Earth than Heaven.

Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds;
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words:
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burdened bee
Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns,
The idol of past years.

ABSENCE.

On her bright face one glance will trace

A picture on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts
A sound must long remain ;
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,

When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life's, but hers.

Her health and would on earth there stood

Some more of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry,

And weariness a name.

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY.

ABSENCE.

WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?

How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of grace?

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Weary with longing? Shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day?

ABSENCE.

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
Of casting from me God's great gift of time?
Shall I, these mists of memory locked within,
Leave and forget life's purposes sublime?

O! how, or by what means, may I contrive

To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?

How may I teach my drooping hope to live
Until that blessed time, and thou art here?

I'll tell thee for thy sake I will lay hold

Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, In worthy deeds, each moment that is told,

While thou, beloved one, art far from me.

For thee I will arouse my thoughts, to try

All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; For thy dear sake I will walk patiently

Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make

A noble task-time; and will therein strive

To follow excellence, and to o'ertake

More good than I have won since yet I live.

So may this doomed time build up in me

A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine!
So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thought an influence divine!

FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER.

A WISH.

MINE be a cot beside the hill!

A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal-a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy at her wheel shall sing,
In russet gown, and apron blue.

The village church, among the trees,

Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

ODE ON SOLITUDE.

HAPPY the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground;

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in Summer yield him shade,
In Winter fire.

Blest who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind;
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixt; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live

unseen, unknown:

Thus unlamented let me die!

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie!

ALEXANDER POPE.