My pen I have laid down in sorrow,
The songs of my lute I forego,
From neither assistance I'll borrow

To utter my heart-seated wo!
But peace to her bosom, wherever

Her thoughts or her footsteps may stray: Memento of mine again never

Will shadow the light of her

way!

WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND THEE.

WHEN other friends are round thee,

And other hearts are thine

When other bays have crown'd thee,
More fresh and green than mine,

Then think how sad and lonely
This doating heart will be,
Which while it throbs, throbs only
Beloved one, for thee!

Yet do not think I doubt thee,
I know thy truth remains.

I would not live without thee,

For all the world contains.
Thou art the star that guides me
Along life's troubled sea;

And whatever fate betides me,

This heart still turns to thee.

MY MOUNTAIN BRIDE.

HERE upon the mountain side,
Till now we met together;
Here I won my woodland bride,
In flush of summer weather.
Green was then the linden bough,
This dear retreat that shaded;
Autumn winds are round me now,
And the leaves have faded.

She whose heart was all my own,

In this summer-bower,

With all pleasant things has flown,

Sunbeam, bird and flower!

But her memory will stay

With me, though we're parted

From the scene I turn away,

Almost broken-hearted!

SILENT GRIEF.

WHERE is now my peace of mind?

Gone, alas! for ever more:

Turn where e'er I may, I find

Thorns where roses bloom'd before.

O'er the greenfields of my soul,

Where the springs of joy were found,

Now the clouds of sorrow roll,

Shading all the prospect round!

Do I merit pangs like these,

That have cleft my heart in twain?

Must I, to the very lees,

Drain thy bitter chalice, Pain?

Silent grief all grief excels;

Life and it together part,

Like a restless worm it dwells.

Deep within the human heart!

BESSY BELL.

WHEN life looks drear and lonely, love,

And pleasant fancies flee,

Then will the muses only, love,

Bestow a thought on me!

Mine is a harp which Pleasure, love,

To waken strives in vain,

To Joy's entrancing measure, love,

It ne'er can thrill again!

Why mock me, Bessy Bell?

Oh do not ask me ever, love,

For rapture-woven rhymes;

For vain is each endeavour, love,

To sound Mirth's play-bell chimes! Yet still believe me, dearest love,

Though dull my song may be, This heart still doats sincerest, love,

And grateful turns to thee!

My once true Bessy Bell!

F