TO MYRA, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

Each thought, each wish should upward tend,
In prayer to HIм-th' almighty friend,

That never care or grief should be

In life thy tearful destiny!

I would that ever, o'er thy head,
Lightly as now might griefs descend ;-
Ever, beneath thy fairy tread,

Life's thorny cares as gently bend;
I would thy life might ever be
Like some sweet, flowing melody,
Whose strains, ethereally soft

As music of the spheres at even,
In murmuring cadence borne aloft,
Should sweetly die away in Heaven!

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MARY'S LOVE.

WHEN on my lot, with face unkind,
Doth Fortune most severely frown,
I bear me still a cheerful mind,

Nor let her cast my spirits down: Though she's severe, I'm blithe and gay, Not all her frowns my soul can move; For to myself this charm I say

I-I am bless'd with MARY'S LOVE!

And while that source of bliss is left-
Whatever ills in life betide,
I care not: though of friends bereft-
Save her, I care for naught beside:
And though I be nor rich, nor great,
I count myself all kings above;
Nor would I give for all their state,
The nobler prize of MARY'S LOVE!

MARY'S LOVE.

When loss I meet-oppressed by care-
When e'en the friends I love grow strange,
Yet still a mind unmoved I bear;

For what care I for chance or change?
Since she I love-oh! thought of bliss!—
Loves me, no ills my soul can move;
In all my griefs, my joy is this-

I still am bless'd with MARY'S LOVE!

When on my couch of pain and wo

I lay me down, afflicted sore,-When fell disease hath brought me low, And gloomy death is at my door;One joy I have, which to my soul

A balm of healing then doth prove,

More potent than physician's dole;

'Tis this-I'm bless'd with MARY'S LOVE!

And when the stern command is given,
For Death to cast his fatal dart,

I'll raise my cheerful eyes to Heaven-
And even then, this faithful heart

One thought will cherish, strong in death,
Next to my hopes of Heaven above;

And dying, with my latest breath

I'll whisper-Bless'd with MARY's Love!

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MY BEAUTIFUL! MY OWN!

My gentle girl! my own one!-Still To me whate'er betide

Through life of weal or wo-life's ill I'll scoff at and deride:

I would not care, at me were all

Fate's shafts of malice thrown, So long as thee, dear girl, I call

There may be maidens, love, on earth,

More fair than even thou;

And noble dames of loftier birth

Than thine, there are, I trow :— But yet my own dear girl, above The queen upon her throne

I prize thee, and thy gentle love; "My Beautiful! my Own!"

MY BEAUTIFUL! MY OWN!

There may be those of higher state

And fortune than are thine;

It might be that thy wealth were great,
Yet greater wealth were mine:
But who may richer treasures find-
More priceless gems be shown,

Than thine,—the jewels of the mind!—
"My Beautiful! my Own!"

There may be those more deeply skilled
Than thou, in musty lore;

There may be heads e'en better filled
With useful learning's store;

Yet learned enough for me thou art,
Nor learning hast alone,

But a gentle, pure, and loving heart

There may be those in heavenly art,
To whom more gifts belong;
To fill the ear and flood the heart
With richest tide of song:
But dearer far is one fond word,

In thy low, gentle tone,

Than sweetest music ever heard

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