Of sweet sad praise to Him who loves the right. TASTE. WHEN, o'er her dying child, we hear The hopeless mother sigh; "Can such affection die?" Perhaps it can-for wolves and worms Have their affections too; And passion sometimes loves the false Even better than the true. But Taste, in its infinity, Its beauty, and its might, Walks thro' the beams of common day In robes of heavenly light: A spirit-ay, a deathless Eve, To man's pure bosom given: What power like that which turns to bliss The mournful and the dull, And from the dust beneath our feet Calls up the beautiful, Can bid the hopes of frailty soar, Undying life, to thee? Pride dies with man; but Taste predicts His immortality. THE WOODBINES OF JUNE. BROOM glow'd in the valley, For William and Sally, The rose with the rill was in tune; Love fluttering their bosoms, As breezes the blossoms, They stray'd thro' the woodbines of June. Oft, oft he caress'd her, And to his heart press'd her, The rose with the woodbine was twined; Like dew on the blossom, Enchanted the tale-telling wind. Poor Sally was bonny, But Mary had money, Ay, money, and beauty beside; Deprive the wise fool of his bride? Yes, bee-haunted valley ! Poor heart-broken Sally No more, with her William, will stray "He marries another! I'm dying!-O mother! Take, take that sweet woodbine away!" THE REJECTED. His hand clasp'd in hers, she look'd up in the face Two boys and a girl, in their butterfly chase, He saw me he knew me-his brown cheek turn'd pale, "Oh, still doth he love me?" I sigh'd; But my heart how it sank! and I felt my knees fail, As I look'd on his beautiful bride. In their comely attire, and their calm thankful air, While, childless and mateless, in want and despair, Oh, even at the altar, when coldly I gave Remorse told my heart, in a voice from my grave, Nought! call ye it nought to applaud what ye hate? To borrow of servants? and, apeing the great, Till at last; but, O Henry! my doom I could bear, And feel, while the robe of my weaving I wear, That while thou tread'st humbly, with truth for thy stay, The path that to competence led, Thou pitiest the proud one who threw thee away, And think'st of her desolate bed. RAINBOWED MAY. Now, over violets the chaffinch hops, For heav'n is dim with showers, and mountain-tops Haste then, mechanic, take thy spade and hoes ; And with thee take, rejoicing as he goes, Lo! his cheek reddens as he lifts his eyes! And to his shout his smoke-dried dog replies, For to the garden, where the red-breast hops, While, bathed in dewy air, the mountain tops |