THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. O, MY love's like the steadfast sun, One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. Even while I muse, I see thee sit As when, beneath Arbigland tree, We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon When looks were fond and words were few. Though I see smiling at thy feet Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose, They come, my love, they come from thee. O, when more thought we gave, of old, A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, At times there come, as come there ought, A mother's heart shine in thine eye, ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove, I thou, my love, wert by my side, How gayly would our pinnace glide I miss thee at the dawning gray I miss thee when by Gunga's stream But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I spread my books, my pencil try, Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Let the breath of renown Across the dark blue sea; But never were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee! REGINALD HEBER. WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. WHEN the black-lettered list to the gods was presented (The list of what Fate for each mortal intends), At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, And slipped in three blessings, wife, chil dren, and friends. In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated, For justice divine could not compass its ends; The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, For earth becomes heaven with-wife, children, and friends. If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested, The fund, ill secured, oft in bankruptcy ends; But the heart issues bills which are never protested, When drawn on the firm of-wife, children, and friends. Though valor still glows in his life's dying embers, The death-wounded tar, who his colors defends, Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers How blessed was his home with wife, children, and friends. The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story, Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends, With transport would barter whole ages of glory For one happy day with- wife, children, and friends. ever freshen and nourish The laurel which o'er the dead favorite bends; O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish, It had rained in the night, and all the wood There were puddings and pies to bake, besides And the day was hot, and her aching head "If maidens but knew what good wives know, "Jennie, what do you think I told Ben Brown ?" "It was this," he said, and coming near He smiled, and stooping down, Kissed her cheek, the best THE WORN WEDDING-RING. "'t was this, that you were YOUR wedding-ring wears thin, dear wi e; ab, And the dearest wife in town!" The farmer went back to the field, and the wife, In a smiling, absent way, Sang suatches of tender little songs She'd not sung for many a day. And the pain in her head was gone, and the clothes Were white as the foam of the sea; Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet, And as golden as it could be. O, blessings on that happy day, the happiest of my life, When, thanks to God, your low, sweet "Yes" made you my loving wife! "Just think," the children all called in a breath, Your heart will say the same, I know; that And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new. And O, when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest, May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that breast; O, may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear sight of you, Than Egypt's river; from that gentle side Of those fond eyes, - fond as they were when Drink, drink and live, old man! Heaven's realm this old ring was new! WILLIAM COX BENNETT. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonny brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go : And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. ROBERT BURNS. holds no such tide. The starry fable of the milky-way And sacred Nature triumphs more in this No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. ROCK ME TO SLEEP. BYRON. BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again just for to-night! |