OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE.

OUR first young love resembles
That short but brilliant ray,

Which smiles, and weeps, and trembles
Through April's earliest day.

And not all life before us,

Howe'er its lights may play,

Can shed a lustre o'er us

Like that first April ray.

Our summer sun may squander
A blaze serener, grander;

Our autumn beam

May, like a dream

Of heav'n, die calm away;

But, no let life before us

Bring all the light it may, "Twill ne'er shed lustre o'er us

Like that first youthful ray.

BLACK AND BLUE EYES.

THE brilliant black eye

May in triumph let fly

All its darts without caring who feels 'em ; But the soft eye of blue,

Though it scatter wounds too,

Is much better pleased when it heals 'em
Dear Fanny!

Is much better pleased when it heals 'em.

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The black eye may say,

"Come and worship my ray ·

By adoring, perhaps you may move me!"

But the blue eye, half hid,

Says, from under its lid,

"I love, and am yours, if you love me!'

Yes, Fanny!

The blue eye, half hid,

Says, from under its lid,

"I love, and am yours if you love me !"

Come tell me, then, why,

In that lovely blue eye,

Not a charm of its tint I discover ;

Oh why should you wear

The only blue pair

That ever said "No" to a lover?
Dear Fanny!

Oh, why should you wear

The only blue pair

That ever said "No" to a lover?

DEAR FANNY.

"SHE has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool;

"She has wit, but you mustn't be caught so:"

Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool,

And 'tis not the first time I have thought so,

Dear Fanny.

'Tis not the first time I have thought so.

"She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly; ""Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season:"

Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny
That Love reasons much better than Reason,

Dear Fanny?

Love reasons much better than Reason.

FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.

FROM life without freedom, say, who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die? Hark! - hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the

brave,

The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave. Our country lies bleeding - haste, haste to her aid; One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains. On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed

For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.

And oh, ev'n if Freedom from this world be driven, Despair not - at least we shall find her in heaven.