LIFE,

A BRIEF HISTORY IN THREE PARTS, WITH A SEQUEL.

BY WILLIAM CUTTER.

PART I. LOVE.

A GLANCE—a thought—a blow

It stings him to the core !
A question-will it lay him low?

Or will time heal it o'er?

He kindles at the name,

He sits and thinks apart

Time blows, and blows it to a flame

It burns within his heart.

He loves it, though it burns,
And nurses it with care,

Feeding the blissful pain, by turns,

With hope, and with despair.

Sonnets and serenades

Sighs, glances, tears, and vowsGifts, tokens, souvenirs, parades,

And courtesies, and bows.

A purpose and a prayer—
The stars in the sky!

He wonders how even hope should dare
To let him aim so high.

Still hope allures and flatters,

And doubt just makes him boldAnd so, with passion all in tatters, The trembling tale is told.

Confessions, vows, and blushes—
Soft looks, averted eyes—

Each heart into the other rushes

Each yields, each wins-a prize!

161

PART III. MARRIAGE.

A gathering of fond friends-
Brief, solemn words and prayer—
A trembling to the fingers' ends,
As, hand in hand, they swear!

Sweet cake, sweet wine, sweet kisses-
And so the deed is done;

Now, for life's woes and blisses,
The wedded two are one!

And down the shining stream,

They launch their buoyant skiff— Blest-if they may but trust hope's dreamBut ah !-truth echoes-IF!

SEQUEL. "IF."

If health be firm-if friends be true

If self be well controlled

If tastes be pure-if wants be few,
And not too often told,-

LIFE.

If reason always rule the heart,
And passions own its sway-
If love, for aye, to life impart
The zest it gives to-day,-

If Providence, with parent care,
Mete out the varying lot,

While meek contentment bows to share

The palace, or the cot,

And oh! if Faith sublime and clear,
The spirit upward guide-

Then blest indeed, and blest fore'er,

The Bridegroom and the Bride!

163

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

BY EDMUND FLAGG.

WELL-rest thee bright one; we may not deplore

thee;

Death hath no terrors unto such as thou; From ills to come, from anguished years-ah, freely We yield thee to thy God, who calleth now.

We would not that bright brow were marked with furrows,

Which Time's dread finger sure had graven there; We would not that pure lip had writhed with sorrows, Which all earth's tenants soon or late, must share.

Ay, rest thee;-yet, thy mother's heart is bleeding, To think that form so chill and pulseless now; That rich dark eye its purple lid is veiling,

And the bright curls are still upon thy brow.