THE eyes which death had quenched, Kept there their life and living lustre still; The auburn locks, which sorrow's withering hand,
Forestalling time, had changed to early gray, Disporting from the ivory forehead fell
In ringlets which might tempt the breath of May;
The lips now cold as clay,
Seemed to breathe warmth and vernal fragrance there;
The cheeks were in their maiden freshness fair. Thus had the limner's art divine preserved A beauty which from earth had passed away! And it had caught the mind which gave that
Its surest charm, its own peculiar grace.—
A meek submissive gentleness serene,
A heart on duty stay'd, sedate,
Simple, sincere, affectionate,
Were in that virgin countenance portrayed.
FLOWERS there are which, early springing, Perfumed from the tender spray, Still around sweet odors flinging, Breathe delight from their decay. Petals faded-yet surviving— Precious dust will fragrance yield; Dust departed-still reviving- Odors are to sense revealed.
Thus, oh friend, when life is ending, Virtue round thy dying bed, With a life's remembrance blending, Flower-like shall its fragrance shed. Though thy dust, the grave compressing, Mixed with other dust shall be, Deeds of goodness ever blessing, Flower-like still, shall breathe of thee.
To hope the best is pious, brave, and wise, And may itself procure what it presumes.
OH! deep within my inmost heart Thy treasured image lies, Enshrined with all that's holy there, That death or change defies-
And yet my woman's tongue could ne'er Frame words to tell thee thou art dear.
No, woman's love is ever found, A silent, hidden thing;
Where hopes and fears alternate rise, Like shadows o'er a spring, That, in some lone and silent wood Is gushing in the solitude.
No, like the voiceless perfume breathed, Where flow'rets deck the ground, That hidden in their verdant screen, Else, scarcely might be found,- I would that o'er thy sense may steal, The half a woman's heart can feel. MRS. E. O. SMITH.
LAUNCHED is the bark, the sail unfurled, The helmsman at his post; His ocean is the wide, wide world, His compass has been lost: And vain is now his utmost skill To lower the swelling sail; But on at random, wanders still, This play-thing of the gale!
His lighted torch-mast, once a guide, Now throws its beams around, To show how useless was the pride Which wreath-cords round it bound: His arrow holds its station still, Unmoved by each fond art; That pointed arrow never will From Love's gay trappings part!
Away, away the vessel speeds,
Unchecked its devious course- No threatened danger ever heeds, While passion's breeze lends force; In vain may Prudence, from afar, With lifted hands exclaim!
Hope ever lights her beacon star, And Love pursues the flame!
Onward, still onward-where's the clime Through which he has not been? And who will dare predict the time, When he may next be seen?
That bow-wrought bark! ah, who may tell When last it floated by?
Or guess what echoed its farewell, The light laugh or a sigh?
Love's Ocean is the wide, wide world, Young hearts its waves composing; His bark is launched, his sail unfurled, And none shall see its closing.
When fair the breeze that wafts him on, Each trace how sweet to mark! But tempest-tost-his rudder gone- God speed the little bark!
MRS. A. P. DINNIES.
HUMID seal of soft affections, Tenderest pledge of future bliss! Dearest tie of young connections, Love's first snow-drop-Virgin Kiss!
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