THE POET TO HIS BRIDE.
BY CATHARINE H. WATERMAN.
Lucille, my love, my hope, my pride. My beautiful, mine own fair bride, Young angel watching by my side, Who left its home in Heaven, Scatt'ring the glories of its rays, To light a mortal's cheerless days, Making his rough and beaten ways Bright as a summer even.
Give me the sunlight of thy smiles,Charms, which the sting from care beguiles, Give me thy blue eyes' liquid isles, Where melted pearls appear; Come—thine Eolian voice, mine own. Low as the wind-harp's gentle tone When answ'ring some sad spirit's moan, Brings music to mine ear.
Vision of joy, more fair than aught My fervid fancy ever wrought, My brightest dreams embodied thought, Where ling'rest thou so long? Echo hath hidden in some sweet flower, And with its witching spell of power, Cheats me with sounds from out thy bower, Like to thy voice's song.
The smiling stream around my feet. Leaps to the same glad measure sweet, The ev'ning breeze its strains repeat. Mocking my heart in glee; Yet art thou near—for by my side. Young flowers blush forth in crimson pride, They hail thy steps, Lucille, my bride, They blossom fresh for thee.
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THOUGHTS OF HOME. BY C4TELJiAJNC H. WATS4.MBM- I hear the wild, low melody, Of many a forest bird. And mine eye looks forth to meet them. And my heart with, joy is stirr'd. And the eoundof pleasant waters/ Come gladly to mine ear; Bat they pass, unseen, before me}. And their tone alone I hear. The blushing hues of flowers Are springing round my feet; But alas! no clinging tendril My twining fingers meet. I see young forms approaching, And yet I may not clasp The airy hands that meet me Have no returning grasp. f see my noble brother, He stands beside me now; I part the dark and clust'ring locks That shade his manly brow. The bright and blessed vision Fades from my aching sight. As the parting beams of sunshine Melt slowly into night And. there thou standst, my mother, I look, into ibino eye. The mirror of thy loving heart. Whoa* fount* are never dry, I see the many furrow* Of time's unceasing flight. On thy brow where dark rings gather'd, Are locks of paly white. Thou too, art there, my sister, With thy light and springing form; Thou'st come like a gleam of sunshine Amid the tempest storm. I hear the thrilling echo's Of thy free and gladsome laugh; But the cup is passing from me. Ere my thirsting lips, can quaff* *Tis past, my gentle mother, Those visions are no more ; Sweet sister, glorious brother, I tread a stranger shore.
Now ibe hamlet's still as death. Moping o'er the desert heath, Wild and wan thy haggard face, Which by moon light lean trace; Fiery red thy ferret eye
Doth deep in hollow socket lie.
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AUGUST. By CORNELIUS WEBBER. New the summer ' s face is brown, Let us shun the sultry town Foe the haunts of shade and dew, And the skies of smokeless blue; For the green and breezy hills. And th# ever running rills, Where the silent way they take, By the foot of flow'ry brake, By the poet's nooks and bowers, Where the birds, and bees, and fl o wais Sing, and love, and Uve- their hours; Nothing thoughtful of the morrow, Knowing neither pain nor sorrow. But, content with what is given, Live, and do the will of Heaven.
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ADVICE The hour is come—the doctor in his chair, Throw wide the doors, and bid the first come in; It is dispensary day! The narrow hall Is throng'd, as was Bethseda's strand of yore, With sufferers of every kind and ailment; Young, old, lame, blind, female and male, all met, Prescient of succour, brooding o'er their woes. And conning how they best may paint their pains. With skilful air, and aspect sharp, the Leech Takes up his pen, turns o'er a book, and studies. While by his side the dapper student sits, Apeing his look of gravity and wisdom. The first approaches, with an awkward bow, Letter in hand of printed warranty, Sign'd by subscriber, setting forth name, age, And each et cetera. " How now! good man Roger! And is it thou ? Why, what ails thee, old heart ?" " Pains in the back, an't please thee." " Is it so ? Thou hast a family, a large one ?" " Yes!" " Art used to labour?" " Aye, from morn till night" " Fond of strong ale, too ?" " Mainly—drink three quarts." Marry! I wonder not then at thy pains. But take thou this: an it stir not thy ribs. Then is there no virtue left in rhubarb. Away, and see me our next public day. Come—for the next. Who's here ? Eh, damsel Alice, Art not well yet?" " No, sir, my old complaints, Tremblings, heart-burnings, want of sleep at nights, Failure of appetite, and loss oft spirits." "Turn round thy face; why aye, thou lookest pale;
