OFT-TOLD LOVE WEARIES NOT.

SAY over again, and yet once over again, That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated

Should seem a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it.

Remember, never to the hill or plain, Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.

Beloved, I, admit the darkness greeted,

By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain,

Cry," Speak once more-thou lovest!" Who can fear

Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll

Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?

Say thou dost love me, love me, love me,— toll

The silver iterance !-only minding, dear,
To love me also in silence with thy soul.

E. B. Browning.
From the Portuguese.

A PRAYER FOR PURITY IN LOVE.

I LOVE! and love hath given me
Sweet thoughts to God akin,
And oped a living paradise

My heart of hearts within:
O from this Eden of my life
God keep the serpent Sin!
I love! and into angel-land

With starry glimpses peer;

I drink in beauty like heaven-wine,
When one is smiling near.
And there's a rainbow round my soul
For every falling tear.

Dear God in heaven! keep without stain
My bosom's brooding Dove :
Oh clothe it meet for angel-arms,
And give it place above!
For there is nothing from the world
I yearn to take, but Love.
Gerald Massey.

OH! love is deeper than the ocean's caves,
Reckless and stormier far than all his waves:
Yet is he gentler than the doe that cleaves
To the calm solitude of forest leaves.
And love is swifter than the fleece that flies
Over its summer playground, the blue skies:
Yet hesitating as a vale-check'd stream
That lingers, lingers, in a mazy dream.
And love is warmer than a Zephyr's breath,
That sighs himself some summer day to
death:

Yet, seeming strange, he feigns uncaring words,

Cold as the winter pour'd o'er shrinking herds, And love is plaintive as a cushat dove,

And yet there's nought so silent as sweet love;

LOVE'S FLORAL OFFERING.

DEAR object of my late and early prayer! Source of my joy ! and solace of my care! Whose gentle friendship such a charm can give

As makes me wish and tells me how to live! To thee the Muse with grateful hand would bring

These first fair children of the doubtful Spring.

Oh may they, fearless of a varying sky, Bloom in thy breast and smile beneath thine eye!

In fairer lights their vivid blue display,
And sweeter breathe their little lives away.
John Langhorne.