What though our love was never told,
Or breathed in sighs alone;

By signs that would not be controlled,
Its growing strength was shown:
The touch, that thrilled us with delight,
The glance-by art untamed;

In one short moon, as brief as bright,
That tender truth proclaimed.

We parted, chilling looks among ;
My inmost soul was bowed;
And blessings died upon my tongue,
I dared not breathe aloud:
A pensive smile, serene and bland,
One thrilling glance-how vain!
A pressure of thy yielding hand;-
We never met again!

Yet still a spell was in thy name,

Of magic power to me;

That bade me strive for wealth and fame,

To make me worthy thee!

And long, through many an after year,
When boyhood's dream had flown;
With nothing left to hope or fear,
I loved, in silence on.

More sacred ties, at length, are ours,
As dear as those of yore;

And later joys, like autumn flowers,
Have bloomed for us once more!

But never canst thou be again
What once thou wert to me;
I glory in another's chain-
And thou'rt no longer free.

Thy stream of life glides calmly on,
(A prosperous lot is thine,)
The brighter, that it did not join
The turbid waves of mine:

Yet, oh! could fondest love relume
Joy's sunshine on my brow,
Thine scarce can be a happier doom
Than I might boast of now.

LOVE.

F. G. HALLECK.

WHEN the tree of Love is budding first, Ere yet its leaves are green,

Ere yet, by shower and sunbeam nurs'd Its infant life has been ;

The wild bee's slightest touch might wring The buds from off the tree,

As the gentle dip of the swallow's wing Breaks the bubbles on the sea.

But when its open leaves have found
A home in the free air,

Pluck them, and there remains a wound
That ever rankles there.

The blight of hope and happiness
Is felt when fond ones part,

And the bitter tear that follows is
The life-blood of the heart.

When the flame of love is kindled first,
'Tis the fire-fly's light at even,

'Tis dim as the wandering stars that burst
In the blue of the summer heaven.
A breath can bid it burn no more,
Or if, at times, its beams

Come on the memory, they pass o'er
Like shadows in our dreams.

But when that flame has blazed into
A being and a power,

And smiled in scorn upon the dew
That fell in its first warm hour,

'Tis the flame that curls round the martyr's head, Whose task is to destroy;

'Tis the lamp on the altars of the dead,

Whose light is not of joy!

Then crush, even in their hour of birth,

The infant buds of Love,

And tread his growing fire to earth,

Ere 'tis dark in clouds above;

Cherish no more a cypress tree
To shade thy future years,

Nor nurse a heart-flame that may be
Quenched only with thy tears.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

BYRON.

THERE's not a joy the world can give like that it takes

away,

When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay.

'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,

But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness,

Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt on oceans of excess; The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in

vain,

The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul, like death itself comes down ;

It cannot feel for others' woes, it may not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And, though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,

Though midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;

'Tis but as ivy leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.

Oh! could I feel as I have felt or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd

scene:

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,

So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.

TIVOLI.

L. E. LANDON.

Rushing, like uncurbed passion, through the rocks
Which it hath riven with a giant's strength,
Down came the gushing waters, heaped with foam,
Like melted pearl, and filling the dark woods
With thunder tuned to music.

WHEN last I gazed, fair Tivoli,

Upon those falls of thine,

Another step was by my side,

Another hand in mine:

And mirrored in those gentle eyes,

To me thou wert a paradise.

I've smiled to see her sweet lips move,

Yet not one accent hear,

Lost in thy mighty waterfall,
Although we were so near,

My breath was fragrant with the air

The rose-wreath gave she wont to wear.