M.P.; OR, THE BLUE-STOCKING.

SONG.

SUSAN.

YOUNG Love lived once in an humble shed,
Where roses breathing

And woodbines wreathing

Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.
His garden flourish'd,

For young Hope nourish'd

The infant buds with beams and showers; But lips, though blooming, must still be fed, And not even Love can live on flowers.

Alas! that Poverty's evil eye

Should e'er come hither,

Such sweets to wither!

The flowers laid down their heads to die,
And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.

She came one morning,

Ere Love had warning,

And raised the latch, where the young god lay;

"Oh ho!" said Love-" is it you? good-by;

So he oped the window, and flew away!

To sigh, yet feel no pain,

To weep, yet scarce know why;
To sport an hour with Beauty's chain,
Then throw it idly by;

To kneel at many a shrine,

Yet lay the heart on none;

To think all other charms divine,
But those we just have won ;

This is love, careless love,

Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame,
Through life unchill'd, unmoved,
To love in wintry age the same
As first in youth we loved;
To feel that we adore

To such refined excess,

That though the heart would break with more,

We could not live with less;

This is love, faithful love,

Such as saints might feel above.

SPIRIT of Joy, thy altar lies

In youthful hearts that hope like mine; And 'tis the light of laughing eyes

That leads us to thy fairy shrine. There if we find the sigh, the tear,

They are not those to sorrow known; But breathe so soft, and drops so clear, That bliss may claim them for her own. Then give me, give me, while I weep,

The sanguine hope that brightens woe, And teaches even our tears to keep

The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

The child who sees the dew of night
Upon the spangled hedge at morn,
Attempts to catch the drops of light,
But wounds his finger with the thorn.
Thus oft the brightest joys we seek

Are lost, when touch'd, and turn'd to pain;
The flush they kindle leaves the cheek,

The tears they waken long remain.

But give me, give me, &c., &c.

WHEN Leila touch'd the lute,
Not then alone 'twas felt,
But when the sounds were mute,
In memory still they dwelt,
Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers
Still we heard thy morning numbers.
Ah, how could she, who stole.

Such breath from simple wire,
Be led, in pride of soul,

To string with gold her lyre?

Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh;
Golden now the strings she waketh!

But where are all the tales

Her lute so sweetly told?
In lofty themes she fails,

And soft ones suit not gold.
Rich lute! we see thee glisten,
But, alas! no more we listen!

BOAT GLEE.

THE song that lightens the languid way
When brows are glowing,

And faint with rowing,

Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound through life we stray;
The beams that flash on the oar a while,
As we row along through waves so clear,
Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile
That shines o'er sorrow's tear.

Nothing is lost on him who sees

With an eye that feeling gave ;-
For him there's a story in every breeze,
And a picture in every wave.
Then sing to lighten the languid way;
When brows are glowing,

And faint with rowing,

"Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay, To whose sound through life we stray.

OH think, when a hero is sighing,
What danger in such an adorer!
What woman can dream of denying
The hand that lays laurels before her?
No heart is so guarded around,

But the smile of a victor would take it;

No bosom can slumber so sound,

But the trumpet of glory will wake it.

Love sometimes is given to sleeping,
And woe to the heart that allows him;
For oh, neither smilling nor weeping

Has power at those moments to rouse him.

But though he was sleeping so fast,

That the life almost seem'd to forsake him, Even then, one soul-thrilling blast

From the trumpet of glory would wake him.

The eyes of fun

Was sure to have the kisses in

A Lottery, a Lottery, &c.

This Lottery, this Lottery,

In Cupid's court went merrily,
And Cupid play'd

A Jewish trade

In this his scheming Lottery;
For hearts, we're told,

In shares he sold

To many a fond believing drone,

And cut the hearts

In sixteen parts,

So well each thought the whole his own.
Chor.-A Lottery, a Lottery, &c.

SONG.

THOUGH sacred the tie that our country entwineth,
And dear to the heart her remembrance remains,
Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth,
And sad the remembrance that slavery stains.
O thou who wert born in the cot of the peasant,
But diest of languor in luxury's dome,
Our vision, when absent-our glory, when present—-
Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.