WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS.

WHEN on the lip the sigh delays,

As if 'twould linger there for ever; When eyes would give the world to gaze,

Yet still look down, and venture never; When, though with fairest nymphs we rove, There's one we dream of more than any—

If all this is not real love,

'Tis something wond'rous like it, Fanny!

To think and ponder, when apart,
On all we've got to say at meeting;
And yet when near, with heart to heart,
Sit mute, and listen to their beating:

To see but one bright object move,

The only moon, where stars are many—

If all this is not downright love,

I prithee say what is, my Fanny!

When Hope foretells the brightest, best,
Though Reason on the darkest reckons ;
When Passion drives us to the west,

Though Prudence to the eastward beckons ; When all turns round, below, above,

And our own heads the most of anyIf this is not stark, staring love,

Then you and I are sages, Fanny.

HERE, TAKE MY HEART.

HERE, take my heart-'twill be safe in thy keeping,

While I go wand'ring o'er land and o'er sea; Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,

What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If, in the race we are destined to run, love,
They who have light hearts the happiest be,
Then, happier still must be they who have none, love,
And that will be my case when mine is with thee.

It matters not where I may now be a rover,
I care not how many bright eyes I may see;
Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her,
I'd tell her I couldn't-my heart is with thee.

And there let it lie, growing fonder and fonder

For, even should Fortune turn truant to me, Why, let her go—I've a treasure beyond her,

As long as my heart's out at int'rest with thee!

OH, CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME.

Он, call it by some better name,
For Friendship sounds too cold,
While Love is now a worldly flame,
Whose shrine must be of gold;
And Passion, like the sun at noon,
That burns o'er all he sees,

Awhile as warm, will set as soon-
Then, call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far,

More free from stain of clay

Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are,
Yet human still as they:

And if thy lip, for love like this,

No mortal word can frame,

Go, ask of angels what it is,
And call it by that name!

POOR WOUNDED HEART.

POOR wounded heart, farewell!
Thy hour of rest is come;

Thou soon wilt reach thy home,

Poor wounded heart, farewell! The pain thou'lt feel in breaking Less bitter far will be,

Than that long, deadly aching,

This life has been to thee.

There

broken heart, farewell!

The

pang is o'er

The parting pang is o'er;

Thou now wilt bleed no more,

Poor broken heart, farewell!

No rest for thee but dying

Like waves, whose strife is past, On death's cold shore thus lying, Thou sleep'st in peace at last

Poor broken heart, farewell!