And if along thy lip and cheek That smile of heavenly softness play, Which, ah! forgive a heart that's weak, So oft has stol'n my mind away.

Thou'lt seem an angel of the sky,
That comes to charm me into bliss;
I'll gaze and die-who would not die,
If death were half so sweet as this!

When Lelia touch'd the lute.

When Leila touch'd the lute,
Not then alone 'twas felt,
But, when the sounds were mute,
In memory still they dwelt.
Sweet lute! in mighty slumbers
Still we heard thy morning numbers.

Ah, how could she, who stole

Such breath from simple wire,

Be led, in pride of soul,

To string with gold her lyre?
Sweet lute! thy cords she breaketh;
Golden now the strings she waketh!

But where are all the tales
Her lute so sweetly told?
In lofty themes she fails,

And soft ones suit not gold.

Rich lute! we see thee glisten,

But, alas! no more we listen!

When Charles was deceived.

When Charles was deceiv'd by the maid he lov❜d,
We saw no cloud his brow o'ercasting,

But proudly he smiled, as if gay and unmov'd,
Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting;
And often, at night when the tempest roll'd,

He sung as he paced the dark deck over, "Blow, wind, blow! thou art not so cold

As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover!"

Yet he lived with the happy, and seem'd to be gay, Tho' the wound but sunk more deep for concealing; And fortune threw many a thorn in his way,

Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling! And, still by the frowning of fate unsubdued,

He sung, as if sorrow had placed him above her, ઃઃ Frown, fate, frown! thou art not so rude

As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover!"

At length his career found a close in death,

The close he long wish'd to his cheerless roving, For victory shone on its latest breath,

And he died in a cause of his heart's approving;

But still he remember'd his sorrow, and still

He sung, till the vision of his life was over, "Come, death, come! thou art not so chill

As the heart of the maid that deceived her lover!"

When life looks lone and dreary.

When life looks lone and dreary,

What light can dispel the gloom?
When time's swift wing grows weary,
What charm can refresh his plume?
'Tis woman, whose sweetness beameth
O'er all that we feel or see;

And if man of heav'n e'er dreameth,

'Tis when he thinks purely of thee,
Oh, woman!

Let conquerors fight for glory

Too dearly the meed they gain ;

Let patriots live in story,

Too often they die in vain.

Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em,
This world can offer to me

No throne like beauty's bosom,
No freedom like serving thee,
Oh, woman!

Young Love lived once in an humble shed.

Young Love liv'd once in an humble shed,

Where roses breathing,

And woodbines wreathing

Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.
His garden flourish'd,

For young Hope nourish'd

The infant buds with beams and showers;
But lips, though blooming, must still be fed,
And not even Love can live on flowers.

Alas! that poverty's evil eye

Should e'er come hither,

Such sweets to wither!

The flowers laid down their heads to die,
And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.
She came one morning,

Ere Love had warning,

And rais'd the latch, where the young god lay; "Oh ho!" said Love-" is it you? good by ;" So he open'd the window, and flew away!

Song of the Angel.

"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will toward men."-Luke ii. 14.

Array'd in clouds of golden light,

More bright than heaven's resplendent bow,

Jehovah's angel came by night,

To bless the sleeping world below!

How soft the music of his tongue!
How sweet the hallow'd strains he sung!
"Good-will henceforth to man be given ;"
The light of glory beams on earth;
Let angels tune the harps of heaven,
And saints below rejoice with mirth :
On Bethlehem's plains the shepherds sing,
And Judah's children hail their King!

The grief of Judah.

Hush'd is the voice of Judah's mirth-
And Judah's minstrels too are gone;

The harps that told Messiah's birth,
And hung on heav'ns eternal throne.

Fled is the bright and shining throng
That swell'd on earth the welcome strain,

And lost in air, the choral song

That floated wild on David's plain.

For dark and sad is Bethlehem's fate,
Her valleys gush with human blood;
Despair sits mourning at her gate,

And murder stalks in frantic mood.

At morn, the mother's heart was light,
Her infant bloom'd upon her breast,
At eve, 'twas pale and wither'd quite,
And gone to its eternal rest.