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And she to whom it once was given,
Was half of earth and half of heaven.

I hear thy voice, I see thy smile,
I look upon thy folded hair;
Ah! while we dream not they beguile,
Our hearts are in the snare;

And she who chains a wild bird's wing
Must start not if her captive sing.

So, lady, take the leaf that falls,

To all but thee unseen, unknown;
When evening shades thy silent walls,
Then read it all alone;

In stillness read, in darkness seal,
Forget, despise, but not reveal!

Stanzas.

STRANGE! that one lightly whispered tone
Is far, far sweeter unto me,

Than all the sounds that kiss the earth,
Or breathe along the sea;
But, lady, when thy voice I greet,
Not heavenly music seems so sweet.

I look upon the fair blue skies,

And naught but empty air I see; But when I turn me to thine eyes, It seemeth unto me

Ten thousand angels spread their wings Within those little azure rings.

The lily hath the softest leaf

That ever western breeze hath fanned,
But thou shalt have the tender flower,
So I may take thy hand;

That little hand to me doth yield
More joy than all the broidered field.

O lady! there be many things

That seem right fair, below, above;
But sure not one among them all
Is half so sweet as love ;-
Let us not pay our vows alone,
But join two altars both in one.

Lines by a Clerk.

OH! I did love her dearly,
And gave her toys and rings,
And I thought she meant sin-
cerely,

When she took my pretty

things.

But her heart has grown as icy

As a fountain in the fall, And her love, that was so spicy,

It did not last at all.

I gave her once a locket,

It was filled with my own
hair,

And she put it in her pocket
With very special care.
But a jeweller has got it,-

He offered it to me,
And another that is not it
Around her neck I see.
For my cooings and my billings

I do not now complain,
But my dollars and my shillings
Will never come again;

They were earned with toil and sorrow,

But I never told her that, And now I have to borrow,

And want another hat. Think, think, thou cruel Emma, When thou shalt hear my woe,

And know my sad dilemma,

That thou hast made it so.
See, see my beaver rusty,

Look, look upon this hole,
This coat is dim and dusty;
O let it rend thy soul !
Before the gates of fashion
I daily bent my knee,
But I sought the shrine of
passion,

And found my idol,-thee.
Though never love intenser

Had bowed a soul before it, Thine eye was on the censer,

And not the hand that bore it.

The Philosopher to bis Love.
DEAREST, a look is but a ray
Reflected in a certain way;
A word, whatever tone it wear,
Is but a trembling wave of air;
A touch, obedience to a clause
In nature's pure material laws.

The very flowers that bend and meet,
In sweetening others, grow more sweet;
The clouds by day, the stars by night,
Inweave their floating locks of light;

The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's braid,
Is but the embrace of sun and shade.

How few that love us have we found!
How wide the world that girds them round!
Like mountain streams we meet and part,

Each living in the other's heart,

Our course unknown, our hope to be

Yet mingled in the distant sea.

But Ocean coils and heaves in vain,
Bound in the subtle moonbeam's chain;
And love and hope do but obey
Some cold, capricious planet's ray,
Which lights and leads the tide it charms
To Death's dark caves and icy arms.

Alas! one narrow line is drawn,
That links our sunset with our dawn;
In mist and shade life's morning rose,
And clouds are round it at its close;
But ah! no twilight beam ascends
To whisper where that evening ends.
Oh! in the hour when I shall feel
Those shadows round my senses steal,
When gentle eyes are weeping o'er
The clay that feels their tears no more,
Then let thy spirit with me be,
Or some sweet angel, likest thee!

The Poet's Lot.

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Though muses round thy trundle-bed

Their broidered tissue weave not.

The poet's future holds

No civic wreath above him; Nor slated roof, nor varnished chaise,

Nor wife nor child to love him. Maid of the village inn,

Who workest woe on satin, (The grass in black, the graves in green,

The epitaph in Latin,) Trust not to them who say, In stanzas, they adore thee; rather sleep in churchyard clay,

Child of the ploughshare, O smile;

Boy of the counter, grieve not,

With urn and cherub o'er thee !

To a Blank Sheet of paper.
WAN-VISAGED thing! thy virgin leaf
To me looks more than deadly pale,

Unknowing what may stain thee yet,—
A poem or a tale.

Who can thy unborn meaning scan?
Can Seer or Sibyl read thee now?
No,-seek to trace the fate of man
Writ on his infant brow.

Love may light on thy snowy cheek,
And shake his Eden-breathing plumes;
Then shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles,
Or Angelina blooms.

Satire may lift his bearded lance,

Forestalling Time's slow-moving scythe, And, scattered on thy little field, Disjointed bards may writhe.

Perchance a vision of the night,

Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin, Or sheeted corpse, may stalk along, Or skeleton may grin !

If it should be in pensive hour

Some sorrow-moving theme I try, Ah, maiden, how thy tears will fall, For all I doom to die!

But if in merry mood I touch

Thy leaves, then shall the sight of thee

Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips

As ripples on the sea.

The Weekly press shall gladly stoop
To bind thee up among its sheaves;

The Daily steal thy shining ore,
To gild its leaden leaves.

Thou hast no tongue, yet thou canst speak,
Till distant shores shall hear the sound;
Thou hast no life, yet thou canst breathe
Fresh life on all around.

Thou art the arena of the wise,

The noiseless battle-ground of fame;
The sky where halos may be wreathed
Around the humblest name.

Take, then, this treasure to thy trust,
To win some idle reader's smile,
Then fade and moulder in the dust,
Or swell some bonfire's pile.

To the Portrait of "A Gentleman."

IN THE ATHENÆUM GALLERY.

Ir may be so,-perhaps thou hast
A warm and loving heart;

I will not blame thee for thy face,
Poor devil as thou art.

That thing thou fondly deem'st a nose,
Unsightly though it be,-

In spite of all the cold world's scorn,
It may be much to thee.

Those eyes,-among thine elder friends,
Perhaps they pass for blue,-

No matter, if a man can see,
What more have eyes to do?

Thy mouth, that fissure in thy face,
By something like a chin,—
May be a very useful place
To put thy victual in.

I know thou hast a wife at home,
I know thou hast a child,
By that subdued, domestic smile
Upon thy features mild.

That wife sits fearless by thy side,
That cherub on thy knee;
They do not shudder at thy looks,
They do not shrink from thee.

Above thy mantel is a hook,-
A portrait once was there;
It was thine only ornament,-
Alas! that hook is bare.

She begged thee not to let it go,
She begged thee all in vain;

She wept, and breathed a trembling prayer
To meet it safe again.

It was a bitter sight to see

That picture torn away;

It was a solemn thought to think

What all her friends would say !

And often in her calmer hours,
And in her happy dreams,

Upon its long-deserted hook

The absent portrait seems.

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