Giving hopes, however lowering,

My life's sky might sometimes prove, I could aye find refuge sure in

The calm haven of thy love.

Wherefore, thou delightful vision,
Was thy stay so very brief?
Woe's me that a joy elysian
Should so sudden change to grief?

Parted now, for ever parted

Malice well has played her part,—
I, the lorn and broken-hearted,
Thou I ask not what thou art.

Still, within my heart adoring
Lives thine image ever fair;
Like a rose in Winter flow'ring,
Blooms my love amid despair.

Fare thee well! yon heaving ocean
Farther soon shall us divide;

Still, till death shall end its motion,
Thou shalt be my heart's fond bride!

THE CAPTURED BIRD.

A FABLE.

A MAIDEN once planted a cunning snare,
And she caught a wild bird of plumage rare;

And she tamed him so, that at last thought she, "This bird has no heart for liberty;

Let me do with him whatsoe'er I may,

He has neither the wish nor the pow'r to stray."

When his mistress had kept this bird so long
That he almost forget his woodland song,
And his forest mates, to him once so dear,
She thought she had nothing more to fear,—
He had been so long her imprison'd slave,
So grateful for every crumb she gave,

That it seemed, be her favours however small,
He could not but choose live still in thrall.
But not thus, from its native joys exiled,
Can a bird to its cage be reconciled;

The string that is played on too long may break,
And a yoke, tho' of gold, soon must tire the neck.
What flow'r can long bloom amid frost and snow?
What joy, without hope, can the fond heart know?
O no, it is not from all joy exiled

That a bird brought up in the forest wild

Can be to such bondage reconciled.

One day she open'd his cage in play,

With a "Go, foolish thing, if thou wilt, away,'
Never dreaming her captive one inch would stray.
The fond bird heard the insulting word,
And his native pride was within him stirr'd;
So he flapped his wings to her wond'ring view,
And away, and away, fast and far he flew.

It was then that the sigh of his mistress proved
That the bird she lost was a bird beloved ;—
He returned to his bower in the forest green,
And her captive caged never more was seen!

Moral. Love is the bird, ye maidens bright,
Of which the minstrel sings;

Then, never may you with caprice light,
Or seeming scorn, or wanton slight,
Forget that he has wings.

WHERE DWELLETH HAPPINESS?

O WHERE dwelleth Happiness—where ?
With the peasant in yon low-roofed cot?
So sages and statesmen declare,

Yet the peasant knows there she dwells not.

Is her home then in palaces grand,

Proud Royalty's favourite guest?

With the gay and the great of the land,

Does she dwell 'mid the dance and the feast ?

Alas! neath the coronet there,

Oft hid is a dark aching brow;

Oft the purple but hides in its glare

The choice victims of care and of woę.

Does she dwell with the famous in song?
Most of all there the search would be vain,
Since the strains that our raptures prolong
Are oft poured from a bosom of pain!

With the Learned and the Wise surely she

Makes herself no rare guest, one would deem?

Lo, the fool, as he passes, may see
She abides not with any of them.

Yet with Friendship she surely is found?
No-not there, to my sorrow, I know:

With Love, then? the feverish bound

Of

my heart

proves that Love is her foe!

Where, O where then at all dwelleth she?

Alas since from Eden sin-driven,

Man here all in vain would her see;
Her sole, chosen dwelling is Heaven.

JEANIE'S NEW ALBUM.

A PREFATORY RHYME.

FRIENDSHIP'S gift so fair to see,
What can I say worthy thee?

Thou'rt a tablet far too fair

For aught else than fancies rare—

Tablet where in sequence bright,

Rare gems of thought shall yet have place, As, one by one, the stars at night

Come out, adorning heaven's face.

Book of beauty, let me shew

What should grace thy page of snow,

What the themes on which may turn

"Thoughts that breathe and words that burn."

Friendly wishes "short and sweet'

Here may find admittance meet:
Here may bard and artist be
Found in friendly rivalry
Painting, each in his own way,
Now Old England's landscapes gay,
Now the scenes less gay than grand
Of thy own loved native land.
Patriots struggling for the right
Here, in verse, may win the fight;
Tyrants who the world would thrall
Here, in verse unpitied fall,—

Here, too, may the bondsman's wrong
Find a fitting voice in song;
Here the moralist may teach,
Here the lover may beseech,

To the idle of his heart

Doing homage like a true man ;

Never pleases minstrel art

More than when the theme is woman,—