When my faults were all forgiven,
And my life deserved of Heaven.
Dearest, let us reckon so,

And love for all that long ago;
Each absence count a year complete,
And keep a birthday when we meet.

'Tis all that I can say ;
It is my vision in the night,
My dreaming in the day;
The very echo of my heart,
The blessing when I pray :
I love thee - I love thee!
Is all that I can say.

I love thee - I love thee!
Is ever on my tongue;
In all my proudest poesy
That chorus still is sung;
It is the verdict of my eyes,
Amidst the gay and young:
I love thee- I love thee!
A thousand maids among.

I love thee I love thee!

Thy bright and hazel glance, The mellow lute upon those lips,

Whose tender tones entrance; But most, dear heart of hearts, thy proofs That still these words enhance,

I love thee I love thee!

Whatever be thy chance.

SERENADE.

АH, sweet, thou little knowest how
I wake and passionate watches keep;
And yet, while I address thee now,

Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep. 'T is sweet enough to make me weep,

That tender thought of love and thee, That while the world is hushed so deep, Thy soul's perhaps awake to me!

Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep!
With golden visions for thy dower,
While I this midnight vigil keep,
And bless thee in thy silent bower;
To me 't is sweeter than the

power

Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurled, That I alone, at this still hour,

In patient love outwatch the world.

VERSES IN AN ALBUM.

FAR above the hollow
Tempest, and its moan,
Singeth bright Apollo
In his golden zone,-

Cloud doth never shade him,

Nor a storm invade him,

On his joyous throne.

So when I behold me

In an orb as bright,

How thy soul doth fold me

In its throne of light!

Sorrow never paineth

Nor a care attaineth,

To that blessed height.

BALLAD.

It was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses,—

We plucked them as we passed!

That churlish season never frowned

On early lovers yet!

O, no the world was newly crowned
With flowers when first we met.

'T was twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses,-

We plucked them as we passed!

THE ROMANCE OF COLOGNE.

'T IS even

on the pleasant banks of Rhine The thrush is singing and the dove is cooing: A youth and maiden on the turf recline Alone and he is wooing.

Yet woos in vain, for to the voice of love
No kindly sympathy the maid discovers,
Though round them both, and in the air above,
The tender spirit hovers.

Untouched by lovely Nature and her laws,
The more he pleads, more coyly she represses;
Her lips denies, and now her hand withdraws,
Rejecting his addresses.

Fair is she as the dreams young poets weave,
Bright eyes and dainty lips and tresses curly,
In outward loveliness a child of Eve,

But cold as nymph of Lurley.

The more Love tries her pity to engross,

The more she chills him with a strange behavior;
Now tells her beads, now gazes on the Cross
And image of the Saviour.

Forth the lover with a farewell moan,

goes

As from the presence of a thing unhuman;
O, what unholy spell hath turned to stone
The young warm heart of woman!

'Tis midnight and the moonbeam, cold and wan, On bower and river quietly is sleeping,

And o'er the corse of a self-murdered man

The maiden fair is weeping.

In vain she looks into his glassy eyes,

No pressure answers to her hands so pressing;
In her fond arms impassively he lies,
Clay-cold to her caressing.

Despairing, stunned, by her eternal loss,

She flies to succor that may best beseem her;
But, lo! a frowning figure veils the Cross,
And hides the blest Redeemer !

With stern right hand it stretches forth a scroll,
Wherein she reads, in melancholy letters,

The cruel, fatal pact that placed her soul
And her young heart in fetters.

"Wretch! sinner! renegade to truth and God!
Thy holy faith for human love to barter!"
No more she hears, but on the bloody sod
Sinks, Bigotry's last martyr!

And side by side the hapless lovers lie;
Tell me, harsh priest! by yonder tragic token,
What part hath God in such a bond, whereby
Or hearts or vows are broken?

THE KEY.

A MOORISH ROMANCE.

"On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the keys of their ancestors' houses in Spain; to which country they still express the hopes of one day returning, and again planting the Crescent on the ancient walls of the Alhambra." SCOTT'S TRAVELS IN MOROCCO AND

ALGIERS.

"Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want closing?"-SANCHO PANZA.

THE Moor leans on his cushion,
With the pipe between his lips;
And still at frequent intervals
The sweet sherbét he sips;
But, spite of lulling vapor
And the sober cooling cup,
The spirit of the swarthy Moor
Is fiercely kindling up!

One hand is on his pistol,

On its ornamented stock,

While his finger feels the trigger

And is busy with the lock