Are bursting at my feet. Oh! mother! life may be a dream ; I bear a happy heart, mother; Yet when fond eyes I see, And hear soft tones and winning words, I ever think of thee. And then the tear my spirit weeps Unbidden, fills my eye; And, like a homeless dove, I long Unto thy breast to fly. THEN I am very sad, mother, I'm very sad and lone ; Oh! there's no heart whose inmost fold Though sunny smiles wreathe blooming lips, My mother, one fond glance of thine Then with a closer clasp, mother, When I am far away, Come oft-TOO OFT thou can'st not come ! And for thy darling pray. WILT THOU LOVE HER STILL? ANONYMOUS. Wilt thou love her still, when the sunny curls Will be laced with the silver threads of age, And her step falls sad and low? Wilt thou love her still, when the Summer's siniles On her lips no longer live? "I will love her still, With right good will!" Thou wilt love her still? then our cherished one Wilt thou love her still, when her changeful eyes I shall love her still!" Thou wilt love her still? then our dearest one Remember, no grief has she ever known, None other, with falterless step, has prest Its innermost shades, but thee! [youth Thou wilt love her still, when the thoughts of In their blushing bloom depart? "Through good and ill, I will love her still." Thou wilt love her still? then our darling take Remember, for thee does she smiling leave No longer to meet their approving looks, With right good will!' Thou wilt love her still then with peaceful trust We our sobbing sorrows quell. When her father is dead, and the emerald sod When her brother's voice is no longer heard, Wilt thou love her still? for to thee she looks, "I will love her still, Through good and ill!" With the marriage vow on her youthful lip, LOVE AT THE SCAFFOLD. GILDEROY-CAMPBELL. The last, the fatal hour has come, The bell has tolled; it shakes my heart; The trumpet speaks thy name; No bosom trembles for thy doom: Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then Your locks they glittered to the sheen, And graceful was the ribbon green Ah! little thought I to deplore Ye cruel, cruel, that combined A long adieu! but where shall fly When every mean and cruel eye Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears. And hate thine orphan boy; Then will I seek the dreary mound, A PRAYER OF AFFECTION. HEMANS. Blessings, O Father, shower! Father of mercies! round his precious head! Father! I pray thee not For earthly treasure to that most beloved, Let such a sense of Thee Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love That wheresoe'er he move, Its heavenly serene |