look with sadness fraught--
And that too pass'd--and boldly then rush'd forth the ardent thought.

"Must those high words of sovereignty ne'er sound in human ear?
I have a friend--a noble friend--as life or freedom dear!
Thou offerest me a glorious gift--a proud majestic throne,
But I know the secrets of _his_ heart--and shall I seal mine own?

"And there is one that loves me well, with yet a gentle love--
Oh! is not _her_ full, boundless faith, all power, all wealth above?
Must a deep gulf between the souls--now closely link'd, be set?
Keep, keep the Sceptre!--leave me free, and loved, and trustful yet!"

Then from the old man's haughty lips was heard the sad reply--
"Well hast thou chosen!--I blame thee not--I that unwept must die;
Live, thou beloved, and trustful yet! No more on human head,
Be the sorrows of unworthy gifts from bitter vials shed!"

_Blackwood's Magazine._

* * * * *

A MOORE-ISH MELODY.

Oh! give me not unmeaning smiles,
Though worldly clouds may fly before them;
But let me see the sweet blue isles
Of radiant eyes when tears wash o'er them.
Though small the fount where they begin,
They form--'tis thought in many a sonnet--
A flood to drown our sense of sin;
But oh! Love's ark still floats upon it.

Then give me tears--oh! hide not one;
The best affections are but flowers,
That faint beneath the fervid sun,
And languish once a day for showers.
Yet peril lurks in every gem--
For tears are worse than swords in slaughter:
And man is still subdued by them,
As humming-birds are shot with water.

_Monthly Magazine_

* * * * *

THE LAST WORDS OF A MOTH.

I burn--I die--I cannot fly--
Too late, and all in vain:
The glow--the light--charmed sense and sight--
Now naught is left but pain.
That wicked flame, no pencil's aim,
No pen can e'er depict on paper;
My waltz embraced that taper waist,
Till I am wasted like a taper.

Worthy the brightest hours of Greece
Was that pure fire, or so _I_ felt it;
Its feeder towered in steadfast peace,
While I believed for me it melted.
No use in heighos! or alacks!
My cure is past the power of money;
Too sure that form of virgin wax
Retained the bee's sting with the honey.

Its eye was blue, its head was cold,
Its round neck white as lilied chalice;