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Then come to this heart, and believe me, no more
My affections shall wander—I dearly adore;
Thinkest thou I can change? No! But steadfast in
truth, I will love thee in age, with the ardour of youth.
BY ANN S. STEPHENS.
Think ye to fetter Love with gold?
Ah no, no!
Enchain the star
That gleams afar,
Forbid the heart
To act its part,
Could Love an humble captive be 1
The heart is Cupid's monarchy;
No gold is in his treasury.
Ah no, no!
Pride stern and cold,
But love is free
As thought can be,
THE FALLING TIDE UPON THE BEACH.
BY HENRY PANTON.
The falling tide upon the beach
In murmurs chides my long delay; The whispering wind in fancy speaks,
And bids me on my course away. And yet I linger near thine eyes,
As one on whom there hangs a spell; I strive in vain—my tongue denies
The tones that form that word, "Farewell."
We'll meet no more. In after years,
Of ties now washed away in tears,
May call emotions to the heart
And may again the scene impart
For me, the heart that once was thine
But never from another's shrine
With thee I've passed the morn of love-
And after-joys the heart would prove,
I linger still; but 'tis in vain—
Procrastination adds but pain,
Come, while my eyes are filled with thee,
Bright may thy future prospects be;
"A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOREVER."
BY L. L. DAFONTE.
Farewell! how oft that word is said
By those who hope to meet again,
Bespeak the transitory pain!
All speechless will I see thee part,
Companion of my broken heart.
Nor think if cheerless I pursue
The path that thou hast marked with wo,
That joy itself can never know—
To hear thee when no other hears;
As in thy pride of youthful years!
When life and care have dimmed thine eye,
So terrible in beauty now,
Unchanged the glory of thy brow!
Till, guided by thy light divine.
To fit companionship with thine!
Bat thou—where'er thy choice may lead,
Unmindful of the wreck it makes— One heart shall follow thee with prayer,
And bless thee, while for thee it breaks. Then if at last thy lot may prove
One worthy of thy love to see, The rapture of that love be his,
The triumph mine to die for thee.
Mouen'st thou o'er those hours departed
Which have fled on rosy wing, When the loved, the gentle-hearted,
Bloomed around thy being's spring Sigh'st thou for the friends that perished
While their hearts were fresh and young; Forms that once thy bosom cherished,
Slumb'ring now the graves among?
Dost thou weep, lone child of sorrow,
Looking sadly for the morrow
Which again shall bid them shine?