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THE TOMB OF ROMEO AND JULIET.

BY L. E. L.

Ay, moralize on Love, and deem
Its life but as an April gleam,-
A thing of sunshine and of showers,
Of dying leaves and falling flowers.
Who would not bear the darkest sphere
That such a rainbow comes to cheer?
Ay, turn and wail above the tomb,
Where sleep the wreck of youth and bloom;
And deem it quite enough to say,—
Thus Beauty, and thus Love decay.
But must I look upon this spot
With feelings thy cold heart has not;
Those gentle thoughts that consecrate,
Even while they weep, the Lover's fate.
I thought upon the star-lit hour,

When leant the maid 'mid leaf and flower,
And blushed and smiled the tale to hear,
Poured from her dark-eyed cavalier;
And yet, I too must moralize,
Albeit with gentler sympathies,

Of all my own fond heart can tell
Of love's despair, and love's farewell,—
Its many miseries;—its tears

Like lava, not like dew;-its fears,

That make hope painful;—then its trust,
So often trampled in the dust;-
Neglected, blighted, and betrayed,
A sorrow and a mockery made!

Then change and adverse fortune, all
That binds and keeps sweet Love in thrall.
Oh, surely, surely, it were best
To be just for one moment blessed;
Just gaze upon one worshipped eye,
Just know yourself beloved, and die!
Literary Souvenir.

THE WOOD.

COME to the fading wood,

Ye youth! of forehead fair, and ringlets bright;
See how the leaf falls stealing to the ground,

Killed by the north-wind rude,

That through the boughs prolongs its melancholy sound.

Come thoughtful to the wood,

Beauty! with downy cheek and sparkling eye!
The bloom that mounts thy lip with this compare :

Lo, where yon arbour stood,

It lent a kiss as sweet, a blush almost as fair!

Come to the dripping wood,

Love! shield thy quiver 'neath thy golden wing:

Hear rain-drops trickling from the withered spray! 'Tis Nature's saddest mood,

She weeps, that thy dear smile so soon must pass away.

Come to the pensive wood,

Come, Pride! and doff thy spangled scarf awhile;

'T will tell thee there's an autumn to thy joys,

Nor canst thou curb the flood

Time's wave oblivious pours to drown thy worthless toys!

Come to the warning wood,

Pleasure! oh, hide thy tabor 'midst its leaves;

Their whispers say, thy summer song is short

As that of feathered brood,

Who, having chanted, fly 'mid milder skies to sport.

Come to the faithless wood,

Wealth! I would shew thee how thy pleasures flee,

And lesson teach to tame thy haughty brow;

Oh, be it understood

Gold is Potosi's dust- —a gilded shade art thou!

Come to the rifled wood,

Pale Poverty! and breathe thy fruitless plaint,
No more the gaudy spring, for others made,

Shall on thy griefs intrude;

Here thou may'st weep secure, stretched in the chilling shade.

Come, Sorrow! to the wood,

--

And with its joyless boughs congenial sigh,
Ere spring shall bid them their attire resume,
O'er many a wretch shall close the turfy tomb.
Life! thou 'rt a vapour-cloud!

Aye shrouding deep in damp autumnal gloom

The swelling heart, that pants for purer worlds to come! Baltimore Gazette.

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

O! my love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears,
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain,—
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To sober joys and soften woes,

Can make my heart or fancy flee
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit;-
Fair, gentle as when first I sued
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee
As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon;

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew,

When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet

Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;
And time and care and birth-time woes

Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose;
To thee and thoughts of thee belong
All that charms me of tale or song;
When words come down like dews unsought,
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,
And Fancy in her heaven flies free-
They come, my love, they come from thee.

O, when more thought we gave of old
To silver than some give to gold,

"T was sweet to sit and ponder o'er
What things should deck our humble bower!
'T was sweet to pull, in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit from Fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for these locks of thine,—
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow and woods are green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,-
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;

And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like the rainbow through the shower:
O then I see, while seated nigh,

A mother's heart shine in thine eye;

And proud resolve, and purpose meek,

Speak of thee more than words can speak

I think the wedded wife of mine

The best of all that's not divine!

Literary Souvenir.

I'M SADDEST WHEN I SING.

BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY, ESQ.

You think I have a merry heart
Because my songs are gay,
But, oh! they all were taught to me,
By friends now far away :

The bird will breathe her silver note
Though bondage binds her wing;—
But is her song a happy one?

I'm saddest when I sing!

I heard them first in that sweet home
I never more shall see,

And now each song of joy has got
A mournful turn for me:

Alas! 'tis vain in winter time
To mock the songs of spring,
Each note recalls some withered leaf-
I'm saddest when I sing!

Of all the friends I used to love,
My harp remains alone;

Its faithful voice still seems to be

An echo to my own:

My tears when I bend over it

Will fall upon its string,

Yet those who hear me, little think
I'm saddest when I sing!

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