And tell him how I love him,
Nor wrong my virgin fame.

Alas! to seize the moment

When heart inclines to heart,
And press a suit with passion,
Is not a woman's part.

If man comes not to gather
The roses where they stand,
They fade among their foliage;
They cannot seek his hand.

WHY DO WE LOVE?

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY, BORN IN 1797, NEAR BATH; DIED AT CHELTENHAM, IN APRIL, 1839.

I OFTEN think each tottering form
That limps along in life's decline;
Once bore a heart as young--as warm-
As full of idle thoughts, as mine.

And each has had his dream of joy,
His own unequall'd pure romance;
Commencing when the blushing boy

First thrills at lovely woman's glance.

And each could tell his tale of youth,
And think its scenes of love evince
More passion, more unearthly truth,
Than any tale before, or since.

Yes! they could tell of tender lays

At midnight penn'd in classic shades; Of days more bright than modern days, And maids more fair than living maids.

Of whispers in a willing ear;

Of kisses on a blushing cheek;
Each kiss each whisper, far too dear
For modern lips to give or speak.

Of prospects too untimely cross'd;

Of passion slighted, or betray'd;

Of kindred spirits early lost,

And buds that blossom'd but to fade.

Of beaming eyes and tresses gay..
Elastic form, and noble brow;

And charms that all have pass'd away.
And left them what we see them now!

And is it so? Is human love

So very light, so frail a thing!

And must youth's brightest visions move For ever on Time's restless wing!

Must all the eyes that still are bright,
And all the lips that talk of bliss,

And all the forms so fair to sight,
Hereafter only come to this?

Ah, yes! each path where lovers rove,
In shady groves or on the shore;
If it can echo vows of love,

Hath echoed vows as fond before.

And other forms as fair as these,
Have glided down yon verdant glen;
And other nymphs beneath the trees
Have heard the flattering words of men.

A strain as sweet as that which floats
Upon the breeze, o'er yonder wave,
By moonlight, rose from other boats,—
From lips now silent as the grave.

Then what are love's best visions worth, If we, at length, must yield them thus; If all we value most on earth,

Ere long, must fade away from us?

If that one being, whom we take
From all the world, and still recur

To all she said, and for her sake
Feel far from joy, when far from her;

If that one form which we adore,
From youth to age, in bliss or pain,
Soon withers, and is seen no more;
Why do we love, if love be vain?

Oh! is it not because we love

(Far more than beauty's fleeting worth)
The kindred soul which floats above
The fair, yet fading flowers of earth?

Because affection shuddering shrinks
From the cold dust left mouldering here,
And 'midst his tears the mourner thinks,
Of joy beyond this troubled sphere.

Yes; if when beauty's dazzling mask
Is gone, no other charms remain,
Well may the heart desponding ask—
Why do we love, if love be vain ?"

66

But 'tis not so. When we behold
Death's faded victim, once so fair;
The eye is dim-the lip is cold-

But all we valued lies not there!

The name of Thomas Haynes Bayly was famous in its day; and his strains serve to renew the memories of music passed away, and to revive in many a bosom the feelings with which, years ago, they listened to those words, breathed in sweet tones by some loved lips now cold and pale; when they were a part of dreams which time and the world have dissipated.-The Critic.

THE HERMIT.

DR. JOHN BYROM, BORN AT KERSAL, NEAR MANCHESTER, IN 1691, DIED SEPTEMBER 28, 1763.

A HERMIT there was, and he lived in a grot,
And the way to be happy they said he had got;
As I wanted to learn it, I went to his cell,
And when I got there, the old hermit said, "Well,
Young man, by your looks you want something I see:
Come tell me the business which brings you to me."

"Why, hermit," I answered, "you say very true,
And I'll tell you the business which brings me to you;
The way to be happy they say you have got,
As I wanted to learn it, I came to your grot;

Now I beg and I pray, if you've got such a plan,
That you'll write it down for me as plain as you can."

Upon this, the old hermit soon took up his pen, And he brought me these lines en he came back again :