And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller betwixt life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman,-nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit, still and bright
With something of an angel light.

WORDSWORTH.

SORROW.

MOURN not, sweet Maid, nor fondly try

To rob me of my sorrow;

It is the only friend that I
Have left in my captivity,

To bid my heart good-morrow.

I would not chase him from my heart,
For he is love's own brother;

And each has learned his brother's part
So aptly, that 'tis no mean art

To know one from the other.

Thus, love will fold his arms and moan,
And sigh, and weep, like sorrow;
And sorrow has caught love's soft tone,
And mixed his arrows with his own,

And learned his smile to borrow.

Only one mark of difference they
Preserve, which leaves them never;
Young love has wings, and flies away,
While sorrow, once received, will stay
The soul's sad guest for ever.

H. NEELE.

LOVE CONCEALED.

YET 'tis said

She kept it to her death;-that, oft as love Would heave the struggling passion to her

lips,

Shame set a seal upon them; thus long time She nourish'd in this strife of love and

modesty,

An inward, slow-consuming martyrdom, Till, in the sight of him her soul most cherish'd,

F

Like flow'rs that on a river's margin fading Through lack of moisture, drop into the

stream,-

So, sinking in his arms, her parting breath Reveal'd her story.

SONG.

TOBIN.

TAKE, oh! take those lips away
That so sweetly were forsworn ;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,

Seals of love, but seal'd in vain!

Hide, oh! hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears;
On whose tops the pinks that grow,
Are of those that April wears;
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee!

SHAKSPERE.

ECHO.

How sweet the answer Echo makes

To music at night,

When, roused by lute or by horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,

Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,
Or horn, or lute, or soft guitar,
The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh in youth sincere,

And only then,—

The sigh, that's breathed for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,

Breathed back again!

T. MOORE,

THE SEALS.

[Written at the suggestion of a Lover, wao inferred the decline of his Mistress's affectious from her changing the Seals of her Letters.]

You've changed the seal-you've changed it thrice!

Your first implied you loved: How welcome was the dear device, A thousand kisses proved.

Your next was love,-it spoke the flame,

Yet scarce so plain, methought;

I kiss'd it, wishing it the same
Your first sweet letter brought.

The second change was change indeed!
To friendship!-Judge my bliss !—
And did I kiss that seal?—I did!

But 't was a farewell kiss!

The sunflower.

"Though lost to sight, to memory dear."

"May the wings of friendship never moult a feather."