But that he, so fondly cherished,

Should think that I have faithless grown!
Feel that truth and love have perished,
And curse the heart still all his own!

This is woe! and now, as ever,
Must I meet him with the gay;
Feel that he is lost forever,

And no word of fondness say.

When his eye, like jewelled dagger,
Rests in cold reproach on me,
Will my faith not feebly stagger?
Will he not the struggle see?

A tyrant's wife! Can she wear calmly
Chains which other hands have forged?
When her heart beats ever warmly
In the presence of its lord?

Father, mother, I forgive you;

You shall ne'er my anguish know;
Heaven forbid that I should grieve you,
Though your hands have dealt the blow.

You knew not that gold could never
Purchase love, more precious far;

You forget that love for ever

Is a woman's guiding star.

THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

THE night wind's sighing through the garden willows,
The drowsy stars are fading from the sky!
The air is balmy as the breath which pillows
A virgin bride's half-conscious, nuptial sigh:

Return, return.

Light of the morning! of all earth the fairest !
Thou in whom ardent love is vestal fire;

So pure in nature, that no being darest
Crimson thy cheek with breathings of desire;

Return, return.

No gem that glistens in the crown imperial,
No star that moves in yon heaven-lit sky!
No flower living through a spring perennial,
Can with thy beauty for a moment vie!

Return, return.

O thou hast been roaming all too long-bethink you

Of him who pines so lonely for thy smile, And for those kisses that to rapture link me, E'en as to heaven rise the mists of Nile;

Return, return.

The hours pass slowly, yet no footsteps greet me,
My ears lack music, yet thy voice is hushed;
I seek thy presence, and the shadows meet me,
Return, thou loved one, ere my soul be crushed!
Return, return.

I hear a voice-it speaks to me all coldly,

Chilling my heart with accents of despair;
And yet I'm doubting; Ah! I dare not boldly
Believe those whispers that my spirit scare.
Return, return.

The night-lamp flickers in its dry-burned socket,
And fills the air with its exhausting breath:
Ah! like the lamp, within my spirit's locket,
Young hope lies shivering in the arms of death.
Return, return.

In vain the call! reason, her sway resuming,
Dispels the uncertainty as a waking dream;
And now I know, beneath the turf consuming,
Thou seek'st oblivion in a night supreme.

Thou canst no more return.

ROSALIE.

'Tis fearful to watch by a dying friend,
Though luxury glistens nigh;

Though the pillow of down be softly spread
Where the throbbing temples lie-

Though the loom's pure fabric enfold the form,
Though the shadowy curtains flow,

Though the feet on sumptuous carpets tread
As "lightly as snow on snow"-

Though the perfumed air as a garden teems
With flowers of healthy bloom,

And the feathery fan just stirs the breeze,
In the cool and guarded room—

Though the costly cup for the fevered lip
With grateful cordial flows,

While the watching eye and warning hand
Preserve the snatched repose.

Yes, even with these appliances,

From wealth's unmeasured store,
'Tis fearful to watch the spirit's flight
To its dim and distant shore.

But oh, when the form that we love is laid
On Poverty's chilly bed!"

When roughly the blast to the shivering limbs
Through crevice and pane is sped-

When the noonday sun comes streaming in
On the dim and burning eye,

And the heartless laugh and the wordly tread
Is heard from the passers by-

When the sickly lip for a pleasant draught
To us in vain upturns,

And the aching head on a pillow hard
In restless fever burns-

When night rolls on, and we gaze in woe
On the candle's lessening ray,

And grope about in the midnight gloom,
And long for the breaking day—

Or bless the moon as her silver torch
Sheds light on our doubtful hand,

When pouring the drug which a moment wrests
The soul from the spirit-land-

When we know that sickness of soul and heart,
Which sensitive bosoms feel

When helpless, hopeless, we must needs gaze
In woes we cannot heal:

This, this is the crown of bitterness!

And we pray, as the loved one dies,

That our path may pass with their waning pulse, And with theirs close our aching eyes.

My story tells of sweet Rosalie,

Once a maiden of joy and delight,
A ray of love, from her girlish days,
To her parents' devoted sight.

The girl was free as the river wave
That dances to ocean's rest,

And life looked down, like a summer's sun,
On her pure and gentle breast.

She saw young Arthur-their happy hearts
Like two young streamlets shone,
That leap along on their mountain path,
Then mingle their waters as one.

They parted: he roved to the western wilds,
So seek for his bird a nest,

And Rosalie dwelt in her father's halls,
And folded her wings to rest.

But her father died, and a fearful blight
O'er his child and his widow fell-
They sunk from that day in the gloomy abyss
Where sorrow and poverty dwell.

Consumption came, and he whispered low
To the widow of early death;

He hastened the beat of her constant pulse,
And baffled the coming breath.

He preyed on the bloom of her still soft cheek,
And shrivelled her hand of snow;

He checked her step in its easy glide,
And her eye beamed a restless glow.

He choked her voice in its morning song,
And stifled its evening lay,

And husky and coarse rose her midnight hymn

As she lay on her pillow to pray.

Poor Rosalie rose by the dawning light,

And sat by the midnight oil;

But the pittance was fearfully small that came By her morning and evening toil.

'Twas then in her lodging the night-wind came Through crevice and broken pane;

'Twas there that the early sunbeams burst, With its glaring and burning train.

When Rosalie sat by her mother's side,
She smothered her heart's affright,

And essayed to smile though the monster Want
Stood haggard and wan in her sight.

She pressed her feet on the cold damp floor,
And crushed her hands on her heart,
Or stood like a statue so still and pale,
Lest a tear or a cry should start.

Her household goods went one by one
To purchase their scanty fare;
And even the little mirror was sold

Where she parted her glossy hair.

Then hunger glared in her full blue eyes,
And was heard in her tremulous tone;

And she longed for the crust that the beggar eats,
As he sits by the wayside stone.

The neighbours gave of their scanty store,
But their jealous children scowled ;
And the eager dog, that guarded the street,
Looked on the morsel and howled.

Then her mother died-'twas a blessed thing!
For the last faint embers had gone

On the chilly hearth, and the candle was out
As Rosalie watched for the dawn.

'Twas a blessed exchange from this dark, cold earth
To those bright and blossoming bowers,
Where the spirit roves in its robes of light,
And gathers immortal flowers!

Poor Rosalie lay on her mother's breast,
Though its fluttering breath was o'er,
And eagerly pressed her passive hand,
Which returned the pressure no more.

In darkness she closed her fixing eyes,
And saw not the deathly glare-
Then straightened the warm and flaccid limbs
With a wild and fearful care.

And ere the dawn of the morrow broke
On the night that her mother died,

Poor Rosalie sank from her long, long watch,
In sleep by her mother's side.