What was it but seeking, through every bright hour,
To find one as fill'd with all sweetness as you?
Then deem it no proof that this heart must be roving,
Still doubting it ever from what it has done;
It once did but toy, knowing nothing of loving,
Till, sporting from many, it clung, love, to one.

GOOD-BYE.

GOOD-BYE! the word is lightly spoken
When ties but lightly bound are broken;
But in that word, to you and me,
Is all that never more may be.
And you and I
Would gladlier die

Than utter now "Good-bye-good-bye!"

Good-bye! to some, O joy-not sorrow!
It speaks of meeting on some morrow.
To us, that word can only tell
A hopeless, endless, last farewell:
And sob and sigh,

Our hearts' wild cry,

Are in that word, "Good-bye-good-bye!"

O SUMMER, PAINT ME HER SWEET LIPS. O SUMMER, paint me her sweet lips upon thy glowing air! Across thy gloom, O Winter, fling the dark night of her hair! O Memory, tender Memory, hear my cry !

Give back, give back the loving lips I never more may touch!

Red the geranium's scarlet show'd but poor and pale by such!

O Memory! bring but these again, and thou wilt give, how

much!

O but to see her face again, and die!

Yet more, O more, O bring me more than yearn'd-for face

and form

The dark eye, misty with its love—the blush with passion

warm

All my blood leapt up to answer in the past! O give me not the coral of her curving lip alone,

But the words in which the quivering heart beat, trembling, through each tone,

And the warm dear silence, more than words, that own'd her all my own,

And the white arms hung around me at the last!

O foolish heart, be still, be still! thy cry is ever vain

For the looks, and smiles, and burning tears that shall not come again,

All that never more thy living eyes shall see.

The buried past is far and cold, and silent in its grave;
Its ears are dull and deaf to all thy misery can rave;

How poor is Memory's power one faint, wan, fleeting glimpse to save,

Of all that never-never more may be !

DIE, DAY!

DIE, day! die, day!
Down-down-downward, haste away!

Here, for night and her I stay;
Die, day! die, bright day!

Come, night! come, night!
Give her give her to my sight!
Bring my joy-my heart's delight!

Come, night! come, sweet night!

HOW LIGHTLY SLEEPING CUPID LIES.

How lightly sleeping Cupid lies,

And smiles, and dreams within my heart!
A touch-a tone-his folded eyes

Awake to sweet life with a start;
Or does he sleep, or does he feign?
So light his slumbers, scarce I know;
Scarce closed his eyes, when, straight again
Wide-oped, with love they gleam and glow.

Yet, if to life the slumberer leap,

Quick at a glance-a touch-a tone, How lightly, too, he sinks to sleep,

How well to many a heart is known!

Pout not, sweet lips; those eyes' bright power
Rule him with spells but known to few;
And should he sleep some erring hour,
He'll, sleeping, smile, and dream of you.

What though from out the shadowy past

Soft laughs he hears-sees dear eyes gleam! Hopes-fears that long have lived their last, What though their sweetness haunt his dream! How weak their power! From dreams he breaks; The Past's dear charm no more endures; Beneath your smile he thrills-he wakes, His tears-his laughs-his life but yours.

A WIFE'S SONG.

O WELL I love the Spring,

When the sweet, sweet hawthorn blows; And well I love the Summer,

And the coming of the rose;

But dearer are the changing leaf,

And the year upon

the wane,

For O they bring the blessed time
That brings him home again.

November may be dreary;
December's days may be
As full of gloom to others
As once they were to me:
But, O to hear the tempest
Beat loud against the pane!
For the roaring wind and the blessed time
That brings him home again!

A SPRING SONG.

LONG has been the winter,
Long-long-in vain

We've sought the bud upon the bough,
The primrose in the lane.
Long have skies been dull and grey,
Nipping's been the blast;

But, sing! Summer's coming!
The bee's out at last.

Sing! Winter's flying;
Summer's coming fast;
Humming joy and Spring-time,
The bee's out at last.

Loud shouts the cuckoo ;
The nested elm round,
Wheels the rook, cawing;

There are shadows on the ground.
Warm comes the breeze and soft,
Freezing days are past.
Sing! Summer's coming!

The bee's out at last.

Sing! Winter's flying;

Summer's coming fast; Humming hope and Spring-time, The bee's out at last.

FROM A GARRET.

A LONDON LYRIC.

DEAR wife, the crowded, bustling street,
Scarce notes your neatness glancing by;
Scarce worth a look from those we meet,
Scarce worth a thought are you and I.
Or if wealth deigns to stoop its eyes
A moment to us, wife, be sure
It sees us only to despise,

Or pity us as sadly poor.

And are we poor? Yes, I confess
I fear the rich despise my coat.

Pride scorns, too, Kate, that cotton dress,
On which you know, Kate, how I dote.
If wealth be cash in purse or bank,
Or stocks or rents alone, I'm sure
For wealth we have not much to thank
The stars; nay, we must own we're poor.

But are these, Kate, the only wealth?
Without them all, may we not own
Riches in youth that laughs with health,
How often to the rich unknown.
Without a shilling-forced to earn
Or do without each meal, I'm sure,
Rich in content, we've yet to learn
That in the truest wealth we're poor.

What if no West-end mansion be
Our home-if quite four stories high
Our two white-curtained windows see
A landscape but of roofs and sky!
Mirth loves, I think, the upper air,
No ennui homes with us, I'm sure.
Gladness, the best of wealth, is there;
And, blest with that, O are we poor?