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DOST THOU REMEMBER.

OST thou remember that place so lonely,

A place for lovers, and lovers only,

Where first I told thee all my secret sighs?

When, as the moonbeam, that trembled o'er thee,

Illumed thy blushes, I knelt before thee,

And read my hope's sweet triumph in those eyes? Then, then, while closely heart was drawn to heart, Love bound us-never, never more to part!

And when I call'd thee by names the dearest
That love could fancy, the fondest, nearest,-

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My life, my only life!" among the rest ;

In those sweet accents that still enthral me,

Thou saidst," Ah! wherefore thy life thus call me?
Thy soul, thy soul's the name that I love best;
For life soon passes,--but how bless'd to be
That Soul which never, never parts from thee!”

THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT.

HERE is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows

weary

Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary

What may that Desert be?

"Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that

come

Are lost like that daylight, for 'tis not their home.

There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes
The water he pants for but sparkles and flies-
Who may that Pilgrim be?

'Tis Man, hapless Man, through this Life tempted on
By fair shining hopes, that in shining are gone.

There is a bright Fountain, through that Desert stealing, To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing—

What may that Fountain be?

'Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ground, By the gifted of heaven alone can be found.

There is a fair Spirit, whose wand hath the spell
To point where those waters in secrecy dwell-
Who may that Spirit be?

'Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learn'd that, where'er

Her wand bends to worship, the Truth must be there!

HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING.

OW lightly mounts the Muse's wing,
Whose theme is in the skies-
Like morning larks, that sweeter sing
The nearer heav'n they rise.

Though Love his magic lyre may tune,

Yet ah! the flow'rs he round it wreathes Were pluck'd beneath pale Passion's moon, Whose madness in their odour breathes.

How purer far the sacred lute,

Round which Devotion ties

Sweet flow'rs that turn to heav'nly fruit,

And palm that never dies!

Though War's high-sounding harp may be

Most welcome to the hero's ears,

Alas! his chords of victory

Are wet, all o'er, with human tears.

How far more sweet their numbers run,
Who hymn, like Saints above,
No victor, but th' Eternal One,
No trophies but of Love!

IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER.

S it not sweet to think, hereafter,

When the Spirit leaves this sphere,
Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her

To those she long hath mourn'd for here?

Hearts, from which 'twas death to sever,
Eyes, this world can ne'er restore,
There, as warm, as bright as ever,
Shall meet us and be lost no more.

When wearily we wander, asking

Of earth and heav'n, where are they, Beneath whose smile we once lay basking, Blest, and thinking bliss would stay?

Hope still lifts her radiant finger,
Pointing to th' eternal Home,
Upon whose portal yet they linger,
Looking back for us to come.

Alas! alas! doth Hope deceive us?

Shall friendship-love-shall all those ties That bind a moment, and then leave us,

Be found again where nothing dies?

Oh! if no other boon were given,

To keep our hearts from wrong and stain,

Who would not try to win a heaven

Where all we love shall live again?