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TO SIGH, YET FEEL NO PAIN.
O sigh, yet feel no pain;
To weep, yet scarce know why;
To kneel at many a shrine,
Yet lay the heart on none;
This is love, faithless love,
Such as kindleth hearts that rove.
To keep one sacred flame,
Through life unchill'd, unmoved;
To feel that we adore,
Ev'n to such fond excess,
That, though the heart would break, with more,
It could not live with less.
This is love, faithful love,
Such as saints might feel above.
Her needle bright beside her lay,
So active once!-now idly shining.
Ah, Jessy! 'tis in idle hearts
That love and mischief are most nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.
The child who with a magnet plays,
And laughing says, "We'll steal it slily." The needle, having nought to do,
Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle ; Till closer, closer come the two,
And-off, at length, elopes the needle.
Now, had this needle turn'd its eye
OUNG Love lived once in an humble shed,
And woodbines wreathing
Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.
His garden flourish'd,
For young Hope nourish'd
The infant buds with beams and showers; But lips, though blooming, must still be fed, And not even Love can live on flowers.
Alas! that Poverty's evil eye
Should e'er come hither,
Such sweets to wither!
The flowers laid down their heads to die,
And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.
She came one morning,
Ere Love had warning,
And raised the latch, where the young god lay ; Oh ho!" said Love-" is it you? good-bye;" So he oped the window, and flew away!
SAY, WHAT SHALL BE OUR SPORT TO-DAY?
AY, what shall be our sport to-day?
There's nothing on earth, in sea, or air, Too bright, too high, too wild, too gay, For spirits like mine to dare!
"Tis like the returning bloom
Of those days, alas! gone by,
When I loved, each hour-I scarce knew whomAnd was bless'd-I scarce knew why.
Ay-those were days when life had wings,