LINES ON A MINIATURE.

It is her image!-Even as

She stands before me yet, Mirrored in Memory's faithful glassWhen last mine eye she met: The sweet expression of that face,

The sadness of that brow,

'Tis like, though silent-how unlike!

I gaze upon it, till

I almost fancy speech it hath—
That image, calm and still:

I breathe to it, in softest tone,
Her gentle name, so dear;
And half expect to hear my own,
Responsive, meet mine ear!

A thousand kisses on that cheek,
And on those lips I've press'd!
But, ah! not mine the sweet response
With which I once was bless'd:
And yet, though kisses back, the while,
I'd seek to win in vain,—

They seem to wear her well-known smile
Which bade me kiss again!

Oh! wondrous power of mighty art!

Whose magic can restore

Their forms, when those we love depart, To sight and sense once more:

And thou, fair type of her, whose charms Thou dost so well recall,

We part not, till is in these arms,

Thy dear ORIGINAL!

RETURNING LETTERS.

I SEND thee back each gift and token
Of thine, in happier days, to me;
They mind me but of vows, now broken,
That once were fondly breathed by thee:

There was a time, I had not parted

With the most trifling gift of thine; But now, with hope, the broken-hearted May well all other gifts resign!

I send thee back each letter-glowing
With love I thought could never change;
Once fondly prized-now only showing
How Time the feelings may estrange:
There was a time, I had not bartered
Of these I send, a single line,

If all the wealth by kings e'er chartered,

In free exchange were proffered mine !

And even while I thus return them

So dear was once each line to me,
Though worthless now-I cannot burn them,
And so I send them back to thee:

There was a time, I thought that, never
Save but with life, with them I'd part;
But Time the fondest ties will sever,

And I am outcast from thy heart!

I send back all!-Ay! every token
Of thee, and of the love once thine-
Save memory of the vows we've spoken;
And would I could that too resign!
And thou hast lines I penned in gladness,
When, around Love, twined Hope her chain;
I ask them not;-'twould drive to madness
This heart to look on them again!

I ask but this:-Since with thee, stronger
Than love, is cold indifference grown,—
That there may be on earth, no longer
Of what hath been, a record known:

I would not that a single line

Should speak of hopes forever blighted; I would not that one vow of mine

Were left to say by thee 'twas slighted!

TO A COQUETTE.

And now, since we at last must part,

Kindly I bid thee thus-Farewell!
And oh that I could learn the art,
Fabled, of yore, in Lethe's spell!—
That I could all the past forget!

But no! For though we meet not still
As in the days gone by we've met—
I still must love thee, and I will!

TO A COQUETTE.

"Thou'rt false to me! Thou'rt false to me!
And pride shall teach me to forget!"

Ay! thou art false !--as false and fair
As yonder changing April sky;
Alas! that one with charms so rare

Should only seek to please the eye:
Like the deceitful fruits that grow

Around the Dead Sea's arid waste; Which to the sight are fair as thou, Yet dust and ashes to the taste!

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