Merely to fix the marriage-ties,
Is but prerogative of station;
I joy to think they highly prize,
My private approbation.

The doubtful swain oft comes to me,
With all his hopes and fears at strife,
His theme-not maiden's cruelty,
But of his means of life.

Trust me, this pastoral employ,
Though it hath toilsome, painful hours,
Oft harvests crops of richest joy,

And gathers wreaths of flowers.

-But hark! a voice that shouts amain, "Father!" with childhood's eagerness; My boy (a three years' imp) bursts in To claim the accustomed kiss!

This done-his courage soon is laid-
He turns.
the stranger is descried-

It drives him into ambuscade,

His father's leg beside.

"Come forth, shy child!"-He'll not forsake My coat-flap's deep intrenching screen,

Yet peeping thence, one dimpled cheek
And one bright eye are seen.

Not far behind, the mother speeds
In quest of this her truant boy;
Her husband seen,-how quick succeeds
The blush-rose hue of joy!

Mary, you will, I know, rejoice,
My old, my long-tried friend to see;"
She welcomes him with hand and voice,
In matron modesty.

Her native grace and wish to please,
Bid ceremony disappear;

And the shy colleger's at ease,

As she his sister were.

I saw conviction in him rise,
That 't is not good to be alone,
Where man's most sacred sympathies
Are waste, or spent on one.

And ere he o'er my threshold crossed,
He came my private ear to tell,
That he would be no longer lost
Within a monkish cell;

He'd rouse him from his lethargy;
That passion should not be represt,
Which indolent timidity

Was smothering in his breast.

For morbid fear had triumphed long,
And hope had sickened in the strife;
The moody man had measured wrong
The requisites of life.

Here now he saw, what bliss intense, From pure and mutual love was reaped; Saw too, how small a competence

Our temperate table heaped.

Nor luxury, nor gorgeousness,

Was known within our homestead fence;
But we had all which suited us,-
Plenty and elegance.

Like lot was at his option, yet He fancied it would not suffice, (From too fastidious estimate)

For household decencies.

Wrong had he done the maid, whom he
Loved fondly-but with silent love;
He would not, from her rank, that she
Should even one step remove.

Wrong had he done her,—yea, the excess
Of love his judgment had betrayed;
For him, since larger sacrifice

She would have gladly made.

Yet he the young attachment checked,
Each smile by unresolve was blighted ;-
What could the maiden but suspect
Her passion unrequited.

It was not so-his inmost soul
Denies it-yea, his heart's deep core;
The world's opinion held control
O'er him-it holds no more.

The altered notions, as I might,
I nursed, till Hope rose smiling over;·
He came, a lone desponding wight;
He went, a blithesome lover!

He in gay dreams the future spanned ;
The clouds were gone that gloomed his sun;
And long ere this, hand pledged in hand,

The maid and he are one.

Blackwood's Magazine.

TIVOLI.

BY WILLIAM SOTHEBY.

SPIRIT! who lov'st to live unseen,

By brook, or pathless dell,

Where wild woods burst the rocks between, And floods, in streams of silver sheen, Gush from their flinty cell!

Or where the ivy weaves her woof,
And climbs the crag alone,
Haunts the cool grotto, daylight-proof,

Where loitering drops that wear the roof
Turn all beneath to stone.

Shield me from summer's blaze of day,
From noon-tide's fiery gale,
And as thy waters round me play,
Beneath the o'ershadowing cavern lay,
Till twilight spreads her veil.

Then guide me where the wandering moon Rests on Mæcenas' wall,

And echoes at night's solemn noon,

In Tivoli's soft shades attune

The peaceful waterfall.

Again they float before my sight,
The bower, the flood, the glade;
Again on yon romantic height
The Sybil's temple towers in light,
Above the dark cascade.

Down the steep cliff I wind my way

Along the dim retreat,

And, 'mid the torrents' deafening bray,
Dash from my brow the foam away,

Where clashing cataracts meet.

And now I leave the rocks below,
And issuing forth from night,
View on the flakes that sun-ward flow,
A thousand rainbows round me glow,
And arch my way with light.

Again the myrtles o'er me breathe,
Fresh flowers my path perfume,
Round cliff and cave wild tendrils wreathe,
And from the groves that bend beneath,
Low trail their purple bloom.

Thou grove, thou glade of Tivoli,
Dark flood, and rivulet clear,
That wind, where'er you wander by,
A stream of beauty on the eye,

Of music on the ear:

And thou, that when the wandering moon Illumed the rocky dell,

Did'st to my charmed ear attune

The echoes of Night's solemn noon,

Spirit unseen! farewell!

Farewell!-o'er many a realm I go,

My natal isle to greet,

Where summer sunbeams mildly glow,

And sea-winds health and freshness blow

O'er Freedom's hallowed seat.

Yet there, to thy romantic spot

Shall Fancy oft retire,

And hail the bower, the stream, the grot, Where Earth's sole Lord the world forgot,

And Horace smote the lyre.