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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 :

III.
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.

thought hideaway. For I in thee, and thou in me,

Unite our cloven halves of destiny.

IV.

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,
see

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;

BAYARD TAYLOR. 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' the 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.

1.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

II.
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 : 1

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,

Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee,
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.
Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom 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

IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE, MY LOVE.

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.
0, 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.

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 thee at the dawning gray,

When, on our deck reclined, In careless ease 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 eye,

Thy meek, attentive ear.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE.

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.

How many summers, love,

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

Hast thou been mine?

REGINALD HEBER.

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, Nor how I doated on you ; 0, how proud I was Nor mild Malwah detain ;

of you ! For sweet the bliss us both awaits

But did I love you more than now, when this By yonder western main.

old ring was new? Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea ;

| No- no! no fairer were you then than at this But ne'er were hearts so light and gay

hour to me; As then shall nicet in thee !

And, dear as life to me this day, how could you

dearer be ? As sweet your face might be that day as now it

is, 't is true; JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

But did I know your heart as well when this old
John ANDERSON, my jo, John,

ring was new?
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,

O partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what
Your bonnie brow was brent ;

grief is there But now your brow is beld, John,

For me you would not bravely face, with me Your locks are like the snaw;

you would not share ? But blessings on your frosty pow,

O, what a weary want had every day, if wanting John Anderson, my jo.

you, John Anderson, my jo, John,

Wanting the love that God made mine when
We clamb the hill thegither ;

this old ring was new!
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither.

Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife, — young
Now we maun totter down, John,

voices that are here: But hand in hand we 'll go :

Young faces round our fire that make their And sleep thegither at the foot,

mother's yet more dear; John Anderson, my jo.

Young loving hearts your care each day makes

yet more like to you, More like the loving heart made mine when this

old ring was new. THE WORN WEDDING-RING.

ROBERT BURNS.

Your wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife ; ah, And blessed be God ! all he has given are with summers not a few,

us yet; around Since I put it on your finger first, have passed Our table every precious life lent to us still is o'er me and you ;

found. And, love, what changes we have seen, - what Though cares we've known, with hopeful hearts cares and pleasures, too, —

the worst we've struggled through ; Since you became my own dear wife, when this Blessed be his name for all his love since this old ring was new !

old ring was new!

would

pot of The past is dear, its sweetness still our memo0, blessings on that happy day, the happiest of | T

ries treasure yet ; my life, When, thanks to God, your low, sweet “Yes” The grels we've borne, together borne, we

not now forget. made you iny loving wife! Your heart will say the same, I know; that|

| Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto

heart still true, day's as dear to you, —

We'll share as we have shared all else since this That day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new.

old ring was new.

How well do I remember now your young sweet And if God spare us 'mongst our sons and daughface that day!

ters to grow old, How fair you were, how dear you were, my We know his goodness will not let your heart tongue could hardly say ;

or mine grow cold.

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