The third nor love, nor friendship!-There Indeed love's dream should end;

As coldest stranger better far

Than lover turned to friend!

No kiss I gave that seal-no name-
Still dear-of thine it bore;

The signet, whence the impress came,
Perhaps a rival wore!

I smiled to think 't was so-'t was strange! And have such cause to sigh;

How couldst thou, fairest creature, change? O, wherefore could not I!

J. S. KNOWLES.

A crest without a name.

THE SEALS.

[Suggested by the preceding.]

THRICE has my love changed her seal,
What may the change portend?
Each dear device, commingling, speaks
The lover and the friend.

How full the cup of bliss must be,
When love and friendship join
Their richest hues and flowers to form
The nuptial wreath divine.

The first impression from thy hand

Implied thy constancy ;*

And told my raptur'd heart thy love

Would ever turn to me.

The sunflower.

The seal is chang'd—my throbbing breast
What thoughts of rapture fill;

As thus assured, "Though lost to sight,
Yet dear to memory still."*

Thy second kind epistle brings
Fresh transport to my breast,
As on the dear device I look,
With hope and love imprest.

When youth and beauty fade away,
Nor hope a second spring,
Friendship shall bear us down the vale
On her unmoulted wing.t

But now the third dear change

T' inspire a loftier flame

Of rapture. While I gaze upon
The crest without a name.‡

come

I fear no rival in thy heart;
No jealous pangs; and prove
No name is there engrav'd; it stands
Th' untarnish'd crest of love.

"Though lost to sight, to memory dear."

+"May the wings of friendship never moult a feather." 1 A crest without a name.

Not long, my lovely fair, thy heart
Shall like this crest remain ;
But bear, imprest with holy rites,
Thy faithful husband's name.

And each succeeding hour shall bring
Increasing joys to me;

And every throb my heart shall feel
Shall be a throb for thee.

T. B. SMITH.

A NYMPH'S PASSION.

I love, and he loves me again,
Yet dare I not tell who;

For if the nymphs should know my swain,

I fear they'd love him too;

Yet if he be not known

The pleasure is as good as none,

For that's a narrow joy is but our own.

I'll tell, that if they be not glad,
They yet may envy me;
But then if I grow jealous mad,
And of them pitied be,

It were a plague 'bove scorn,

And yet it cannot be forborne,

Unless my heart would, as my thoughts, be

torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair,
And fresh, and fragrant too,
As summer's sky, or purged air,
And looks as lilies do

That are this morning blown;

Yet, yet I doubt, he is not known,

And fear much more that more of him be

shown.

And he hath eyes so round and bright,

As make away my doubt,

Where Love may all his torches light
Though hate had put them out;

But then, t'increase my fears,

What nymph soe'er his voice but bears, Will be my rival, though she have but ears.