YOUNG Jessica sat all the day,

With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining;
Her needle bright beside her lay.

So active once-now idly shining.

Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts

That love and mischief are most nimble;

The safest shield against the darts

Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.

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The child, who with a magnet plays,
Well knowing all its arts, so wily,
The tempter near a needle lays,

And laughing says, "We'll steal it slily." The needle, having nought to do,

Is pleas'd to let the magnet wheedle;
Till closer, closer come the two,
And-off, at length, elopes the needle.

Now, had this needle turn'd its eye
To some gay reticule's construction,
It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie,

Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction.
Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts,
Your snowy fingers must be nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.

THE EVENING GUN.

REMEMB'REST thou that setting sun,
The last I saw with thee,
When loud we heard the ev'ning gun
Peal o'er the twilight sea?
Boom!—the sounds appear'd to sweep
Far o'er the verge of day,
Till, into realms beyond the deep,
They seem'd to die away.

Oft, when the toils of day are done,
In pensive dreams of thee,

I sit to hear that ev'ning gun

Peal o'er the stormy sea.

Boom!-and while, o'er billows curl'd,

The distant sounds decay,

I weep and wish, from this rough world,
Like them, to die away.

THEN FIRST FROM LOVE.

THEN first from Love, in Nature's bow'rs,
Did Painting learn her fairy skill,
And cull the hues of loveliest flow'rs,
To picture woman lovelier still.
For vain was every radiant hue,
Till Passion lent a soul to art,
And taught the painter, ere he drew,
To fix the model in his heart.

Thus smooth his toil awhile went on,
Till, lo, one touch his art defies;
The brow, the lip, the blushes shone,
But who could dare to paint those eyes?
'Twas all in vain the painter strove;

So turning to that boy divine,

"Here take," he said, "the pencil, Love,

No hand should paint such eyes, but thine."

I COME from a land in the sun-bright deep,
Where golden gardens grow;

Where the winds of the north, becalm'd in sleep,
Their conch-shells never blow.

Haste to that holy Isle with me,
Haste haste!

So near the track of the stars are we,
That oft, on night's pale beams,
The distant sounds of their harmony
Come to our ears, like dreams.

Then, haste to that holy Isle with me, &c. &c.

The Moon, too, brings her world so nigh,
That when the night-seer looks
To that shadowless orb, in a vernal sky,
He can number its hills and brooks.
Then, haste, &c. &c.

To the Sun-god all our hearts and lyres

By day, by night, belong;

And the breath we draw from his living fires,

We give him back in song,

Then, haste, &c. &c.

From us descends the maid who brings

To Delos gifts divine;

And our wild bees lend their rainbow wings
To glitter on Delphi's shrine.

Then, haste to that holy Isle with me,
Haste-haste!

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

FLY swift, my light gazelle,

To her who now lies waking,

To hear thy silver bell

The midnight silence breaking.

And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet, Beneath her lattice springing,

Ah, well she'll know how sweet

The words of love thou'rt bringing.

If thou wouldst have me sing and play,

As once I play'd and sung,

First take this time-worn lute away,

And bring one freshly strung.

Call back the time when pleasure's sigh

First breath'd among the strings;

And Time himself, in flitting by,
Made music with his wings.

But how is this? though new the lute,
And shining fresh the chords,
Beneath this hand they slumber mute,
Or speak but dreamy words.

In vain I seek the soul that dwelt
Within that once sweet shell,
Which told so warmly what it felt,
And felt what nought could tell.

Oh, ask not then for passion's lay,
From lyre so coldly strung;
With this I ne'er can sing or play,
As once I play'd and sung.
No, bring that long-lov'd lute again,—
Though chill'd by years it be,

If thou wilt call the slumb'ring strain,
Twill wake again for thee.