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SONG FOR VALENTINE'S DAY. Alas! ere I'm properly frantic

With some such pure figment as this, Some visions, not quite so romantic,

Start up to demolish the bliss; Some Will o' the Wisp in a bonnet

Still leads my lost senses astray, Till up to my ears in a sonnet

I sink upon Valentine's day.

The Dian I half bought a ring for,

On seeing her thrown in the ring ;The Naiad I took such a spring for,

From Waterloo Bridge in the spring ;The trembler I saved from a robber, on

My walk to the Champs Elysée ! The warbler that fainted at Oberon,

Three months before Valentine's day.

The gipsy I once had a spill with,

Bad luck to the Paddington team !The countess I chanced to be ill with

From Dover to Calais by steam ;The lass that inakes tea for Sir Stephen,

The lassie that brings in the tray ;It's odd,—but the betting is even

Between them on Valentine's day.

The white hands I help'd in their nutting ;

The fair neck I cloak'd in the rain ;
The bright eyes that thank'd me for cutting

My friend in Emanuel lane;
The Blue that admires Mr. Barrow;

The Saint that adores Lewis Way;
The Nameless that dated from Harrow

Three couplets last Valentine's day.

I think not of Laura the witty,

For, oh! she is married at York ! I sigh not for Rose of the city,

For, ah! she is buried at Cork ! Adele has a braver and better,

To say what I never could say ; Louise cannot construe a letter

Of English on Valentine's day.

So perish the leaves in the arbour,

The tree is all bare in the blast!
Like a wreck that is drifting to harbour,

I come to the lady at last :
Where art thou so lovely and lonely,

Though idle the lute and the lay,
The lute and the lay are thine only,

My fairest, on Valentine's day.

For thee I have open'd my Blackstone,

For thee I have shut up myself, Exchanged my long curls for a Caxton,

And laid my short whist on the shelf; For thee I have sold my old Sherry,

For thee I have burn'd my new play, And I grow philosophical—very !

Except upon Valentine's day.

THE SHIP.

BY JOHN MALCOLM.

Her mighty sails the breezes swell,

And fast she leaves the lessening land, And from the shore the last farewell

Is waved by many a snowy hand; And weeping eyes are on the main,

Until its verge she wanders o'er; But, from that hour of parting pain,

Oh! she was never heard of more! In her was many a mother's joy,

And love of many a weeping fair; For her was wafted, in its sigh,

The lonely heart's unceasing prayer;
And oh! the thousand hopes untold

Of ardent youth, that vessel bore;
Say, were they quenched in ocean cold,

For she was never heard of more?
When on her wide and trackless path

Of desolation, doom'd to flee,
Say, sank she 'mid the blending wrath

Of racking cloud and rolling sea?
Or, where the land but mocks the eye,

Went drifting on a fatal shore? Vain guesses all !-Her destiny

Is dark :-she ne'er was heard of more. The moon hath twelve times changed her form,

From glowing orb to crescent wan; 'Mid skies of calm, and scowl of storm,

Since from her port that ship hath gone; But ocean keeps its secret well;

And though we know that all is o'er, No eye hath seen-no tongue can tell

Her fate :-she ne'er was heard of more!

HOUSEHOLD HOURS.

BY SUMNER L. FAIRFIELD.

Howe'er the sceptic scoffs, the poet sighs,
Hope oft reveals her dimly shadow'd dreams,
And seraph joy descends from pale blue skies,
And, like sweet sunset on wood-skirted streams,
Peace breathes around her stilling harmonies,
Her whisper'd music—whilst her soft eye beams-
And the deep bliss, that crowns the household hearth,
From all its woes redeems the bleeding earth.
Like woods that shadow the blue mountain sky,
The troubled heart will seek its home in heaven,
In those affections which can never die,
In hallow'd love and human wrongs forgiven!
From the fair gardens of the blest on high
The fruit of life is yet to lost man given,
And 'mid the quiet of his still abode
Spirits attend him from the throne of God.
The mild deep gentleness, the smile that throws
Light from the bosom o'er the high pale brow,
And cheek that flushes like the May-morn rose ;
The all-reposing sympathies, that glow
Like violets in the heart, and o'er our woes
The silent breathing of their beauty throw-
Oh! every deed of daily life doth prove
The depth, the strength, the truth of woman's love.

When harvest days are past, and autumn skies
The giant forests tinge with glorious hues,
How o'er the twilight of our thought sweet eyes
The fairy beauty of the soul diffuse !

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HOUSEHOLD HOURS. The inspiring air, like spirit voices, sighs 'Mid the close pines and solitary yews, Though the broad leaves on forest boughs look sere, And naked woodlands wail the dying year.

Yet the late season brings no hours of gloom,
Though thoughtful sadness sighs her evening hymn,
For hearth-fires now light up the curtain'd room,
And love's wings float amid the tdilight dim;
Lost loved ones gather round us from the tomb,
And blest revealments o'er our spirits swim,
And hopes, that droop'd in trials, soar on high,
And link'd affections bear into the sky.

Then, side by side, hearts, wedded in their youth,
In their meek blessedness expand and glow,
And, though the world be faithless, still their truth
No pause, no change, no soil of time may know !
They hold communion with the world, in sooth,
Beyond the stain of sin, the waste of woe,
And the deep sanctities of well spent hours
Crown their fair fame with Eden's deathless flowers.

Frail as the moth's fair wing is common fame,
Brief as the sunlight of an April morn;
But love perpetuates the sacred name
Devoted to his shrine; in glory born,
The boy-god gladly to the lone earth came
To vanquish victors and to smile at scorn,
And he will rise when all is finish'd here,
The holiest seraph of the highest sphere.

As fell the prophet's mantle, in old time,
On the meek heir of Israel's sainted sage,
Woman! so falls thy unseen power sublime
On the lone desert of man's pilgrimage ;

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