And tell her thus, if she'll be mine,

The current of our lives shall be,
With joys along their course to shine,
Like those sweet flowers on thee.

But if, in wand'ring thither,

Thou find'st she mocks my prayer,
Then leave those wreaths to wither
Upon the cold bank there;

And tell her thus, when youth is o'er,
Her lone and loveless charms shall be
Thrown by upon life's weedy shore,

Like those sweet flowers from thee.

ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES.

RIN! the tear and the smile in thine eyes,
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies!
Shining through sorrow's stream,

Saddening through pleasure's beam,
Thy suns with doubtful gleam

Weep while they rise.

Erin! thy silent tear never shall cease,

Erin! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase, Till, like the rainbow's light,

Thy various tints unite,

And form in heaven's sight

One arch of peace!

O THOU! WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR.

"He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds."-Psalm cxlvii. 3.

THOU! who dry'st the mourner's tear,

How dark this world would be,

If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!

The friends who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanish'd too,

Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy Wing of Love

Come, brightly wafting through the gloom

Our Peace-branch from above?

Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright

With more than rapture's ray;

As darkness shows us worlds of light

We never saw by day!

SONG.

S o'er her loom the Lesbian Maid

In love-sick languor hung her head,
Unknowing where her fingers stray'd,
She weeping turn'd away, and said,
"Oh, my sweet Mother-'tis in vain—
I cannot weave as once I wove-
So wilder'd is my heart and brain
With thinking of that youth I love!"

Again the web she tried to trace,

But tears fell o'er each tangled thread;
While, looking in her mother's face,

Who watchful o'er her lean'd, she said,
"Oh, my sweet Mother-'tis in vain—
I cannot weave as once I wove-
So wilder'd is my heart and brain
With thinking of that youth I love!"

THE VOICE.

T came o'er her sleep, like a voice of those days,
When love, only love, was the light of her ways;
And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago,
It whisper'd her name from the garden below.