n,
And I shall dream of rich and golden verse
From angel lyres within the bowers of Heaven.

I LOVE THEE.

I love thee--oh! I love thee,
With fervor, deep and wild,
Thy beauty's charm most strangely,
My spirit hath beguiled.

I love thee--oh! I love thee,
The Spring's first, freshest flower,
Comes not across my spirit,
With such a holy power.

I love thee--oh! I love thee,
The fibres of my heart
Are closely twined about thee,
As if by magic art.

I see thee--oh! I see thee,
In the sunbeam, in the bud,
In all that's fair in nature,
In all that's bright and good.

I hear thee--oh! I hear thee,
In the melting music-words,
That swell, at joyous morning,
From the woodland choir of birds.

I crave thee--oh! I crave thee,
Thou angel sent from God!
To beautify the pathway,
Which must by me be trod.

I love thee--oh! I love thee!
And, dearest, I implore,
That bliss may still await thee,
On Heaven's far brighter shore.

ON ----.

A brainless beauty, a would-be coquette,
A brow of marble, but a heart of jet;
An eye that shows no vestige of the deep
And stained thoughts that in her bosom sleep:
By day a vestal, but by night a bawd;
Her ways a riddle, her whole life a fraud;
At church an angel, but at home a shrew,
Cheating her mother, to her sire untrue;
Vain without talent, without merit proud;
By all who see her, still a fool allow'd;
Without all love, with but the show of truth,
She stares and simpers at the scornful youth;
Or ambling loosely on the village street,
While strangers sneer upon the fool they meet:
She lives and moves the true epitome
And climax of all d----mn'd Hypocrisy.
Here I enshrine her, where all time shall see
Her name preserv'd in deathless infamy.

SERENADE.

Far o'er the landscape green,
The moonlight like a lake,
Lies; 'tis a lovely scene,
To bid my lady wake;
My lady, lady, wake,
Wake, oh! wake!

The night is rich with smells,
Like thoughts from heart of love,
Wafted from flower bells,
On unseen wings above;
My lady, lady, wake,
Wake, oh! wake!

The Nightingale, a wo!
Within the grove complains!--
The stars are coming low
To hear her killing strains!
My lady, lady, wake,
Wake, oh! wake!

O see! my lady, far
Beyond yon western steeps,
The moon, with one white star,
In paly parting, weeps:
My lady, lady, wake,
Wake, oh! wake!

Before the envious day,