in the poet's high and wild imaginings;
Or like those forms we meet in dreams from which we wake, and weep
That earth has no creation like the figments of our sleep.

Her parent--loved not he his child above all earthly things!
As traders love the merchandize from which their profit springs:
Old age came by, with tott'ring step, and, for the sordid gold
With which the dotard urged his suit, the maiden's peace was sold
And thus (for oh! her sire's stern heart was steel'd against her
pray'r)
The hand he ne'er had gain'd from love, he won from her despair.

I saw them through the churchyard pass, but such a nuptial train
I would not for the wealth of worlds should greet my sight again.
The bridemaids, each as beautiful as Eve in Eden's bow'rs,
Shed bitter tears upon the path they should have strewn with flow'rs.
Who had not deem'd that white rob'd band the funeral array,
Of one an early doom had call'd from life's gay scene away!

The priest beheld the bridal group before the altar stand,
And sigh'd as he drew forth his book with slow reluctant hand:
He saw the bride's flow'r-wreathed hair, and mark'd her streaming
eyes,
And deem'd it less a Christian rite than a Pagan sacrifice;
And when he call'd on Abraham's God to bless the wedded pair,
It seem'd a very mockery to breathe so vain a pray'r.

I saw the palsied bridegroom too, in youth's gay ensigns drest;
A shroud were fitter garment far for him than bridal vest;
I mark'd him when the ring was claim'd, 'twas hard to loose his hold,
He held it with a miser's clutch--it was his darling gold.
His shrivell'd hand was wet with tears she pour'd, alas! in vain,
And it trembled like an autumn leaf beneath the beating rain.

I've seen her since that fatal morn--her golden fetters rest
As e'en the weight of incubus, upon her aching breast.
And when the victor, Death, shall come to deal the welcome blow,
He will not find one rose to swell the wreath that decks his brow:
For oh! her cheek is blanch'd by grief which time may not assuage,--
Thus early Beauty sheds her bloom on the wintry breast of Age.

Our commendation of the "Keepsake" might be extended much further,
were we to consult our inclination to do justice to its high
character. With so lavish an expenditure and such an array of talent
as we have shown it to contain, to wonder at its success,

Were nothing but to waste night, day, and ti