There be perhaps, who barren hearts avow,
Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow;

There be, whose loveless wisdom never failed,
In self-adoring pride securely mailed;
But triumph not, ye peace-enamored few!
Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you!
For you no fancy consecrates the scene
Where rapture uttered vows, and wept be-
tween;

'Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet; No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet!

Who that would ask a heart to dullness wed,
The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead?
No; the wild bliss of nature needs alloy,
And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy!
And say, without our hopes, without our

fears,

Without the home that plighted love endears, Without the smile from partial beauty won, Oh, what were man? a world without a sun.

Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour,
There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bower;
In vain the viewless seraph lingering there
At starry midnight charmed the silent air;
In vain the wild bird caroled on the steep,
To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep;
In vain, to soothe the solitary shade,
Ariel notes in mingling measure played;
The summer wind that shook the spangled
tree,

The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee;
Still slowly passed the melancholy day,
And still the stranger wist not where to stray.
The world was sad, the garden was a wild,
And man, the hermit, sighed, till woman
smiled.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

WHAT IT IS TO LOVE.

OVE! I will tell thee what is to love:

It is to build with human hearts a shrine, Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove,

Where time seems young, and life a thing divine.

All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss;

Above, the stars in shroudless beauty shine, Around, the streams their flowery margins

kiss,

And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this.

deur,

Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,

Father will come to thee soon! Father will come to his babe in the nest; Silver sails all out of the west, Under the silver moon.

sleep!

So let our hearts unite, my love,

So let our hearts unite.

ily approved ones,

There is a home beyond the skies,

Where vice shall sink, and virtue rise, Till all become the loved ones, love,

Till all become the loved ones.

Searching after the bud she found.

Flower, you Spaniard! look that you grow not,

Stay as you are and be love forever.

less be your brow;

For in that better world above,

Oh, many myriads shall we love,

As one another now, my love.

As one another now.

Mind! the shut pink mouth opens never! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn, and down they nestle : Is not the dear mark still to be seen?

When I find her not, beauties vanish;
Whither I follow her, beauties flee.

Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it with me?

Come, bud! show me the least of her traces.
Treasure my lady's lightest footfall:

Ah! you may flout and turn up your faces,—
Roses, you are not so fair after all!
ROBERT BROWNING.

SONG.

NOULD love impart, by nicest art,

To speechless rocks a tongue, Their theme would be, beloved, of thee, Thy beauty all their song.

And clerk-like, then, with sweet amen, Would echo from each hollow

Reply all day; while gentle fay,

With merry whoop, would follow.

Had roses sense, on no pretence,

Would they their buds unroll; For, could they speak, 'twas from thy cheek, Their daintiest blush they stole.

Had lilies eyes, with glad surprise,

They'd own themselves out-done, When thy pure brow and neck of snow Gleamed in the morning sun.

Could shining brooks, by amorous looks,
Be taught a voice so rare;
Then every sound that murmured round
Would whisper: "Thou art fair!"

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.