They never by their window sit,
And see the gay pass by,
Yet take their weary work again,
Though with a mournful eye.

The rich, they give, they miss it not,-
A blessing cannot be

Like that which rests, thou widow'd one,
Upon thy gift and thee!

TIME ARRESTING THE CAREER OF PLEASURE.

Stay thee on thy wild career,
Other sounds than mirth's are near;
Spread not those white arms in air;
Fling those roses from thy hair;
Stop awhile those glancing feet;
Still thy golden cymbals' beat;
Ring not thus thy joyous laugh;
Cease that purple cup to quaff':
Hear my voice of warning, hear,—
Stay thee on thy wild career!

Even now the storm is near,-
Then stay thee on thy mad career!
Raise thine eyes to yonder sky,
There is writ thy destiny!
Clouds have vail'd the new moon-
light;

Stars have fallen from their height;
These are emblems of the fate
That waits thee,-dark and desolate!
All morn's lights are now thine own,

Youth's sweet bloom is round thee Soon their glories will be gone;

now;

Roses laugh upon thy brow;

Radiant are thy starry eyes;

Spring is in the crimson dyes

What remains when they depart?
Faded hope and wither'd heart:
Like a flower with no perfume
To keep a memory of its bloom!

O'er which thy dimpled smile is Look upon that hour-mark'd round,

Listen to that fateful sound;
There my silent hand is stealing,
My more silent course revealing;
Wild, devoted PLEASURE, hear,-
Stay thee on thy mad career!

THE WRONGS OF LOVE.

Alas! how bitter are the wrongs of love!
Life has no other sorrow so acute:
For love is made of every fine emotion,
Of generous impulses, and noble thoughts;
It looketh to the stars, and dreams of heaven;
It nestles mid the flowers, and sweetens earth.
Love is aspiring, yet is humble, too:

It doth exalt another o'er itself,

With sweet heart-homage, which delights to raise

That which it worships; yet is fain to win

The idol to its lone and lowly home

Of deep affection. "Tis an utter wreck

When such hopes perish. From that moment, life

Has in its depths a well of bitterness,

For which there is no healing.

24

LOVE'S LAST WORDS.

Light be around thee, hope be thy guide;
Gay be thy bark, and smooth be the tide;
Soft be the wind that beareth thee on,
Sweet be thy welcome, thy wanderings done.
Bright be the hearth, may the eyes you love best
Greet the long-absent again to his rest;

Be thy life like glad music, which floateth away
As the gale lingering over the rose-tree in May.

But yet while thy moments in melody roll,
Be one dark remembrance left on thy soul,

Be the song of the evening thrice sad on thine ear,—
Then think how your twilights were past away here.

And yet let the shadow of sorrowing be
Light as the dream of the morning to thee!
One fond, faint recollection, one last sigh of thine
May be granted to love so devoted as mine!

THE POET.

Oh, say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre,
That the minstrel will feign what he never has felt;

Oh, say not his love is a fugitive fire,

Thrown o'er the snow mountains, will sparkle, not melt.

It is not the Alpine hills rich with the ray

Of sunset can image the soul of the bard;

The light of the evening around them may play,

But the frost-work beneath is, though bright, cold and hard.

'Tis the burning volcano, that ceaselessly glows,

Where the minstrel may find his own semblance portray'd;
The red fires that gleam on the summits are those
That first on his own inmost spirit have prey'd.

Ah, deeply the minstrel has felt all he sings,

Every passion he paints his own bosom has known;
No note of wild music is swept from the strings,
But first his own feelings have echoed the tone.

Then say not his love is a fugitive fire,

That the heart can be ice while the lip is of flame;
Oh, say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre;
For the pulse of the heart and the harp are

the

same.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY, 1797-1839.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY was born in the city of Bath, in the year 1797. On the completion of his education, he began the world under the most favorable auspices, and mingled with the best society of the day. At the age of twenty

eight, having married an excellent and accomplished woman, who brought him a considerable fortune, he retired to a country-seat in Sussex, where he continued in the enjoyment of literary leisure and domestic happiness till 1931, when he experienced a change in his pecuniary affairs. The fortune of his wife had been mostly expended, and his father suddenly became a bankrupt and left the country. Under this pressure of misfortunes, he addressed the following beautiful

VERSES TO HIS WIFE.

Oh! hadst thou never shared my fate,
More dark that fate would prove:
My heart were truly desolate
Without thy soothing love.

But thou hast suffer'd for my sake,
Whilst this relief I found,
Like fearless lips that strive to take
The poison from a wound.

My fond affection thou hast seen,
Then judge of my regret

To think more happy thou hadst been
If we had never met!

And has that thought been shared by thee?
Ah, no! that smiling cheek

Proves more unchanging love for me
Than labor'd words could speak.

But there are true hearts which the sight
Of sorrow summons forth;

Though known in days of past delight,
We knew not half their worth.

How unlike some who have profess'd
So much in friendship's name,
Yet calmly pause to think how best
They may evade her claim.

But, ah! from them to thee I turn,-
They'd make me loathe mankind;
Far better lessons I may learn
From thy more holy mind.

The love that gives a charm to home,
I feel they cannot take:

We'll pray for happier years to come,

For one another's sake.

He had hitherto written for his amusement, but he now had to write for his bread; and soon he became one of the most industrious as well as the most successful of English song-writers. But, though he received large sums for his most popular songs and ballads, he was, from his want of habits of economy, always embarrassed and oppressed with debt. The excitement occasioned by his situation at length induced disease; and he died at Chelten

ham, after a severe and protracted illness, on the 22d of April, 1839, in his forty-second year, leaving a wife and two children to mourn his premature loss.

Mr. Bayly was the author of Rough Sketches of Bath, Parliamentary Letters and other Poems, and many pieces for the stage. But he is now mostly known for his exquisite songs, which for sweetness and elegance are second only-if they be second-to those of Burns and Moore; showing the playful fancy, the practised ear, and the refined taste of the author. They are simple, natural, graceful, and tender,-descriptive of the feelings of all, in a language which all can appreciate and understand. It is doubtful if any other songs in the English language ever attained the popularity of Oh, no, we never mention her! I'd be a Butterfly, and The Soldier's Tear. Other of his songs, as, Why don't the Men propose? and My Married Daughter could you see, show a different kind of power, that the author possessed that knowledge of human nature, and those powers of keen and delicate satire, which can lay bare the secret workings of the heart of a vain daughter, or of a silly, ambitious mother, for the amusement of the world.

I NEVER WAS A FAVORITE.

I never was a favorite,

My mother never smiled

On me, with half the tenderness
That bless'd her fairer child:
I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek,
While fondled on her knee;
I've turn'd away, to hide my tears,—
There was no kiss for me!

And yet I strove to please with all
My little store of sense;

I strove to please, and infancy
Can rarely give offence:
But when my artless efforts met
A cold, ungentle check,
I did not dare to throw myself
In tears upon her neck!

How blessed are the beautiful!
Love watches o'er their birth;
O beauty! in my nursery

I learn'd to know thy worth:
For even there I often felt

Forsaken and forlorn;

And wish'd-for others wish'd it too-
I never had been born!

I'm sure I was affectionate;

But in my sister's face

There was a look of love, that claim'd

A smile or an embrace:

But when I raised my lip to meet

The pressure children prize,

None knew the feelings of my heart,

They spoke not in my eyes.

But, oh! that heart too keenly felt
The anguish of neglect!
I saw my sister's lovely form
With gems and roses deck'd:
I did not covet them; but oft,
When wantonly reproved,
I envied her the privilege
Of being so beloved.

But soon a time of triumph came,
A time of sorrow too;

For sickness o'er my sister's form
Her venom'd mantle threw;
The features, once so beautiful,
Now wore the hue of death;
And former friends shrank fearfully
From her infectious breath.

'Twas then, unwearied, day and night,
I watch'd beside her bed;

And fearlessly upon my breast

I pillow'd her poor head.

She lived!-and loved me for my care,

My grief was at an end;

I was a lonely being once,
But now I have a friend.

MY MARRIED DAUGHTER COULD YOU SEE.

My married daughter could you see,
I'm sure you would be struck,-
My daughters all are charming girls,
Few mothers have such luck.
My married one-my eldest child-
All hearts by magic wins;
And my second so resembles her,
Most people think them twins!

My married daughter spoils her spouse,―
She's quite a pattern wife;
And he adores her,-well he may,-

Few men lead such a life!

She ne'er had married mortal man

Till he had won her heart;

And my second darling's just the same,-
They're seldom known apart.

Her husband oft has press'd my hand,
While tears were in his eyes,

And said, "You brought my Susan up,-
With you the credit lies."

To make her a domestic wife,

I own, was all my aim;

And my second is domestic too,-
My system was the same.