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III.

THERE never yet was flower fair in vain, Ah, weary bird ! thou wilt not fly again :
Let classic poets rhyme it as they will ;. Thy wings are clipped, thou canst no more de-
The seasons toil that it may blow again,

part,
And summer's heart doth feel its every ill ; Thy nest is builded in my heart !
Nor is a true soul ever born for naught :
Wherever any such hath lived and died,
There hath been something for true freedom I was the crescent ; thou
wrought,

The silver phantom of the perfect sphere, Some bulwark levelled on the evil side :

Held in its bosom : in one glory now Toil on, then, Greatness ! thou art in the right, Our lives united shine, and many a year However narrow souls may call thee wrong:

Not the sweet moon of bridal only — we Be as thou wouldst be in thine own clear sight, One lustre, ever at the full, shall be : And so thou wilt in all the world's erelong :

One pure and rounded light, one planet whole, For worldlings cannot, struggle as they may,

One life developed, one completed soul ! From man's great soulone great thought hideaway. For I in thee, and thou in me,

Unite our cloven halves of destiny.

IV.

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BAYARD TAYLOR.

I THOUGHT our love at full, but I did err; God knew his chosen time.
Joy's wreath drooped o'er mine eyes; I could not He bade me slowly ripen to my prime,

And from my boughs withheld the promised fruit,
That sorrow in our happy world must be Till storm and sun gave vigor to the root.
Love's deepest spokesman and interpreter ? Secure, O Love ! secure
But, as a mother feels her child first stir Thy blessing is : I have thee day and night :
Under her heart, so felt I instantly

Thou art become my blood, my life, my light: Deep in my soul another bond to thee

God's mercy thou, and therefore shalt endure. Thrill with that life we saw depart from her ; O mother of our angel child ! twice dear ! Death knits as well as parts, and still, I wis, Her tender radince shall infold us here,

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.
Even as the light, borne up by inward bliss,
Threads the void glooms of space without a fear, The day returns, my bosom burns,
To print on farthest stars her pitying kiss.

The blissful day we twa did meet;
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Though winter wild in tempest toiled,

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' thc pride that loads the tide,

And crosses o'er the sultry line,
POSSESSION.

Than kingly robes, and crowns and globes,

Heaven gave me more ; it made thee mine. “It was our wedding-day

While day and night can bring delight, A month ago," dear heart, I hear you say.

Or nature aught of pleasure give,
If months, or years, or ages since have passed,

While joys above my mind can move,
I know not : I have ceased to question Time. For thee and thee alone I live;
I only know that once there pealed a chime

When that grim foe of life below
Of joyous bells, and then I held you fast,

Comes in between to make us part, And all stood back, and none my right denied,

The iron hand that breaks our band, And forth we walked : the world was free and wide

It breaks my bliss, it breaks my heart. Before us. Since that day I count my life : the Past is washed away.

I.

ROBERT BURNS.

II.

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

It was no dream, that vow :
It was the voice that woke me from a dream,
A happy dream, I think ; but I am waking now,
And drink the splendor of a sun supreme,
That turns the mist of former tears to gold.
Within these arms I hold
The fleeting promise, chased so long in vain :

0, MY love 's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run ;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears,
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain,

128

Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or faney flee,
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.
Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden blooin and matron wit ;
Fair, gentle as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood ;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee
As when, beneath Arbigland tree,
We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon;
Or lingered mid the falling dew,
When looks were fond and words were few.

Time, like the wingéd wind

When 't bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind,

To count the hours !
Some weight of thought, though loath,

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 !

BARRY CORNWALL.

Though I see smiling at thy feet
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet,
And time, and care, and birthtime woes
Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose,
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
Whate'er charms me in tale or song.
When words descend like dews, unsought,
With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought,
And fancy in her heaven flies free,
They come, my love, they come from thee.

O, when more thought we gave, of old,
To silver, than some give to gold,
"T was sweet to sit and ponder o'er
How we should deck our humble bower;
’T was sweet to pull, in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit of fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for that brow of thine,
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow, and woods grow green.
At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,
When fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like a rainbow through the shower ;
O then I see, while seated nigh,
A mother's heart shine in thine eye,
And proud resolve and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak.
I think this wedded wife of mine,
The best of all that's not divine.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE, MY LOVE

If thou wert by my side, my love,

How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,

Listening the nightingale !
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 thec at the dawning gray,

When, on our deck reclined,
In careless casc 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 cye,

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,
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,

O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE.

How many summers, love,

Have I been thine ? How many days, thou dove,

Hast thou been mine?

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