Cold, ah! cold must his appear
That has never shared a part

Of woman's love.

'Tis pleasure to the mourner,
'Tis freedom to the thrall;
The pilgrimage of many,
And the resting-place of all,

Is woman's love.

'Tis the gem of beauty's birth;
It competes with joys above;
What were angels upon earth,
If without woman's love-

Sweet woman's love?

JOHN CLARE.

Oh! man may bear with suffering: his heart
Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp
Of pain that wrings mortality; but tear
One chord affection clings to, part one tie
That binds him unto woman's delicate love,
And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed.

N. P. WILLIS.

Amour! toi seul remplis notre ame, toi seul es la source de tous les biens, tant que la vertu s'accorde avec toi. Ah! qu'elle soit toujours ton guide, et

que tu sois son consolateur ! Ne vous quittez jamais, enfans du ciel; marchez ensemble, en vous tenant la main. Si vous rencontrez dans votre route ou les chagrins, ou les malheurs, soutenez-vous mutuellement. Ils passeront, ces malheurs ; et la félicité dont vous jouirez en aura cent fois plus de charmes le souvenir des peines passées rendra plus touchants vos plaisirs. C'est ainsi qu'après un orage on trouve plus verd le gazon, plus riante la campagne couverte de perles liquides, plus belles les fleurs des champs relevant leurs têtes penchées ; et l'on écoute avec plus de délices l'alouette ou le rossignol qui chantent en secouant leurs ailes. FLORIAN.

A LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

Sing, syren, for thyself, and I will dote ;
Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs;
And as a bed I'll take them and there lie;

And in that glorious supposition think
He gains by death that hath such means to die.
SHAKSPERE.

No telling how love thrives! to what it comes! Whence grows! 'Tis e'en of as mysterious root, As the pine that makes its lodging of the rock, Where you would think a blade of grass would die!

What is love's poison if it be not hate?

Yet in that poison oft is found love's food.
Frowns, that are clouds to us, are suns to him!
He finds a music in a scornful tongue,
That melts him more than softest melody—
Passion perverting all things to its mood,
And, spite of nature, matching opposites!

SHERIDAN Knowles.

LOVE THE VICTOR.

"De tout ce qui t'aimait, n'est il plus rien qui t'aime?"

Mighty ones, Love and Death!

Ye are the strong in this world of ours,

Ye meet at the banquets, ye dwell midst the flowers, Which hath the conqueror's wreath?

Thou art the victor, Love!

Thou art the fearless, the crown'd, the free,

The strength of the battle is given to thee,

The spirit from above!

Thou hast look'd on Death and smiled!

Thou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile form Through the waves of the fight, through the rush of

the storm,

On field, and flood, and wild!

No! thou art the victor, Death!

Thou comest, and where is that which spoke

From the depth of the eye, when the spirit woke? -Gone with the fleeting breath!

Thou comest, and what is left
Of all that loved us, to say if aught

Yet loves-yet answers the burning thought
Of the spirit lone and reft?

Silence is where thou art!
Silently there must kindred meet,

No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet,
No bounding of heart to heart!

Boast not thy victory, Death!

It is but as the clouds o'er the sunbeam's power, It is but as the winters o'er leaf and flower, That slumber the snow beneath.

It is but as a tyrant's reign

O'er the voice and the lip which he bids be still; But the fiery thought and the lofty will

Are not for him to chain!

They shall soar his might above !

And thus with the root whence affection springs,

Tho' buried, it is not of mortal things—

Thou art the victor, Love!

THE RETURN.

HEMANS.

13

Oh! have I lived to see thee once again?
Breathe the same air? my own, my bless'd one!
Look up-look up-these are the arms which
shelter'd

When the storm howl'd around; and these the lips
Where, till this hour, the sad and holy kiss

Of parting linger'd-as the fragrance left

By angels when they touch the earth and vanish.
Look up.-Night never panted for the sun,

As for thine eyes, my soul!

SIR E. L. BUlwer.

How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!

SHAKSPERE.

THE FIRST AVOWAL.

It was no fancy, he had named the name

Of love, and at the thought her cheek grew flame:
It was the first time her young ear had heard

A lover's burning sigh, or silver word: