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3

66

CONJUGAL LOVE.

:

YON Cottager, who weaves at her own door
Pillow and bobbins all her little store;
Content, though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffles her threads about the livelong day:
And as the glorious sun sinks in the west,
Prepares her table for a welcome guest;
Then takes a little prattler on her knee,
The pledge of honour'd love and constancy.
Mother and infant now with patience wait
The approach of one towards the wicket-gate
In whom they take deep interest; and, ere long,
A stalwart man, with health and vigour strong,
Salutes his wife and child; and then exclaims-
Mary, my love! I wish those weaving frames
Were laid aside for aye ;- I'm young and able
To furnish every comfort for our table!"
66 Yes, Harry, dear !" the faithful wife replies,
Whilst love and tenderness beam from her eyes,
"I know you're young and able, but, ere long,
Your youth and vigour may not be so strong:
Afflictions come unto the most robust;
And though in God I place my humble trust,
Prepared we should be for his wise decrees,
And not in sloth and indolence sit at ease."
"You're right, my dear !" the doting husband said;
And, after evening prayer, they all retired to bed.
Enviable state! Love after marriage this!
May every married couple taste such bliss!
Then Hymen's fetters will more easy prove,
And happy hearts bound with Conjugal Love!

MELODIA,

I MET her once in my girlish hours,
A creature, soft and warm;

Her cottage bonnet filled with flowers,
Hung swinging on her arm;

Her voice was sweet, as the voice of Love,

And her teeth were pure as pearls,

While her forehead lay, like a snow-white dove,

In a nest of nut-brown curls:

She was a thing unknown to fame-
Melodia was her strange, sweet name.

I never saw an eye so bright,
And yet so soft as hers;

It sometimes swam in liquid light,
And sometimes swam in tears;
It seemed a beauty apart

For softness and for sighs;
But oh! Melodia's melting heart
Was softer than her eyes-
For they were only formed to spread
The softness from her spirit shed.

I've gazed on many a brighter face,
But ne'er on one, for years,
Where beauty left so soft a trace
As it had left on hers.

But who can paint the spell, that wove
A brightness round the whole?
"Twould take an angel from above
To paint the immortal soul—
To trace the light, the inborn grace,
The spirit, sparkling o'er her face.

Her bosom was a soft retreat
For love, and love alone,
And yet her heart had never beat
To Love's delicious tone.

It dwelt within its circle free

From tender thoughts like these, Waiting the little deity,

As the blossom waits the breeze
Before it throws the leaves apart,
And trembles, like the love-touched heart.

She was a creature, strange as fair,
First mournful and then wild-
Now laughing on the clear, bright air
As merry as a child,

Then, melting down, as soft as even

Beneath some new control,

She'd throw her hazel eyes to heaven,
And sing with all her soul,

In tones as rich es some young bird's,
Warbling her own delightful words.