They never can replace the bud our early fondness nursed, They may be lovely and beloved, but not like thee-the first!

THE FIRST! How many a memory bright that one sweet word can bring,

Of hopes that blossom'd, droop'd, and died, in life's delightful spring;

Of fervid feelings pass'd away—those early seeds of bliss, That germinate in hearts unsear'd by such a world as this!

My sweet one, my sweet one, my Fairest and my First! When I think of what thou might'st have been, my heart is like to burst;

But gleams of gladness through my gloom their soothing radiance dart,

And my sighs are hush'd, my tears are dried, when I turn to what thou art!

Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain of

earth,

With not a taint of mortal life except thy mortal birth,— God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many

thirst,

And bliss-eternal bliss-is thine, my Fairest and my First!

2 T

FIDELITY.

ΒΙΟΝ. FROM THE SPANISH.

ONE eve of beauty, when the sun
Was on the streams of Guadalquiver,

To gold converting, one by one,

The ripples of the mighty river; Beside me on the bank was seated A Seville girl with auburn hair,

And eyes that might the world have cheatedA wild, bright, wicked, diamond pair!

She stoop'd, and wrote upon the sand,
Just as the loving sun was going,
With such a soft, small, loving hand,

I could have sworn 'twas silver flowing.
Her words were three, and not one more,
What could Diana's motto be?
The Syren wrote upon the shore-
"Death, not inconstancy !"

And then her two large languid eyes

So turn'd on mine, that, devil take me,

I set the air on fire with sighs,

And was the fool she chose to make me.
Saint Francis would have been deceived

With such an eye and such a hand:

But one week more, and I believed
As much the woman as the sand.

COMMON THINGS.

MRS. HAWKSHAW. FROM "POEMS FOR MY CHILDREN,"

1847.

THE sunshine is a glorious thing

That comes alike to all,
Lighting the peasant's lowly cot,
The noble's painted hall.

The moonlight is a gentle thing,
It through the window gleams,
Upon the snowy pillow, where
The happy infant dreams.

It shines upon the fisher's boat,
Out on the lonely sea;

Or where the little lambkins lie,
Beneath the old oak tree.

The dew drops on the Summer morn
Sparkle upon the grass;

The village children brush them off
That through the meadows pass.

There are no gems in monarchs' crowns More beautiful than they;

And yet we scarcely notice them

But tread them off in play.

Poor Robin on the pear-tree sings,

Beside the cottage door;

The heath-flower fills the air with sweets,

Upon the pathless moor.

There are as many lovely things,
As many pleasant tones,

For those who sit by cottage hearths,
As those who sit on thrones.

LOVE!

BY THE AUTHOR OF "SILENT LOVE."

IN ancient time when Homer sung,
His Grecian lyre to Love was strung;
Sweet Love! the soul-inspiring strain!
Which brings the greatest bliss or pain.-
When Virgil tuned his Latin lyre,
It breathed the same celestial fire;
And when the English poet sings,
What other power can trill his strings?

'Tis by Love's chain the world is hungThe withering old-the glowing youngThe rich, the poor, and ail incline

To kneel at Love's most sacred shrine !
The greatest genius earth can boast,
Has on Love's troubled sea been toss'd;
And as the mind and reason rise,
We read new bliss in woman's eyes!

Yet Love is a most dangerous thing,
Even from the peasant to the king;