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That Power which gives us happiness,
A blessing on his head would pour!
Oh! could affection wish him less?
Yet, could we ask for more?

LOVED, LOST ONE, FARE THEE WELL.

BY JOHN INMAN.

LOVED, lost one, fare thee well-too harsh the doom
That called thee thus in opening life away;
Tears fall for thee; and at thy early tomb
I come at each return of this blest day,
When evening hovers near, with solemn gloom,
The pious debt of sorrowing thought to pay,
For thee, blest spirit, whose loved form alone
Here mouldering sleeps, beneath this simple stone.

But memory claims thee still; and slumber brings
Thy form before me as in life it came;
Affection conquers death, and fondly clings

Unto the past, and thee, and thy loved name;
And hours glide swiftly by on noiseless wings,
While sad discourses of thy loss I frame,
With her the friend of thy most tranquil years,
Who mourns for thee with grief too deep for tears.
Sunday evening.

THE MIDNIGHT BALL.

BY MISS ELIZABETH BOGART.

SHE's bid adieu to the midnight ball,
And cast the gems aside,
Which glittered in the lighted hall:
Her tears she cannot hide.
She weeps not that the dance is o'er,
The music and the song;

She weeps not that her steps no more
Are follow'd by the throng:

Her memory seeks one form alone
Within that crowded hall;

Her truant thoughts but dwell on one
At that gay midnight ball.

And thence her tears unbidden flow-
She's bid adieu to him;

The light of love is darkened now-
All other lights are dim.

She throws the worthless wreath away
That decked her shining hair;

She tears apart the bright bouquet
Of flowrets rich and rare.

The leaves lie scattered at her feet,
She heeds not where they fall;
She sees in them an emblem meet
To mark the midnight ball.

A CARELESS, SIMPLE BIRD.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

A CARELESS, simple bird, one day
Flutt'ring in Flora's bowers,
Fell in a cruel trap, which lay
All hid among the flowers,

Forsooth, the pretty, harmless flowers.

The spring was closed; poor, silly soul,
He knew not what to do,
Till, squeezing through a tiny hole,
At length away he flew,

Unhurt-at length away he flew.

And now from every fond regret
And idle anguish free,

He, singing, says, "You need not set

Another trap for me,

False girl! another trap for me."

CANZONET.

BY J. B. VANSCHAICK.

WHEN motes, that dancing
In golden wine,
To the eyes' glancing

Speak while they shine-
Then, the draught pouring,
Love's fountain free,
Mute, but adoring,

I drink to thee.

When sleep enchaineth,
Sense steals away-
Dream, o'er mind reigneth
With dark strange sway-

One sweet face floateth

Sleep's misty sea,

Th' unconscious heart doateth

On thee-on thee.

3

THE MAIDEN SAT AT HER BUSY WHEEL.

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

"La rose cueillie et le cœur gagné ne plaisent qu'un jour."

THE maiden sat at her busy wheel
Her heart was light and free,
And ever in cheerful song broke forth
Her bosom's harmless glee.
Her song was in mockery of love

And oft I heard her say,

"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart,
Can charm but for a day."

I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek,
And her lip so full and bright,

And I sighed to think that the traitor Love,
Should conquer a heart so light:

But she thought not of future days of wo,
While she carolled in tones so gay;
"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart,
Can charm but for a day."

A year passed on, and again I stood
By the humble cottage-door;
The maid sat at her busy wheel,

But her look was blithe no more:

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