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Amour, l'on doit bénir tes chaînes :
Si deux amans ont à souffrir,
Et tu sais doubler leur plaisir.
WOMAN IS THE LIGHT OF LOVE.
O Woman ! Woman ! thou art form'd to bless
The heart of restless man, to chase his care, And charm existence by thy loveliness ;
Bright as the sunbeam, as the morning fair. If but thy foot fall on a wilderness, Flowers spring, and shed their roseate blossoms
there, Shrouding the thorns that on thy pathway rise, And scattering o'er it hues of Paradise.
Thy voice of love is music to the ear,
Soothing and soft, and gentle as the stream That strays 'mid summer flowers; thy glittering
tear Is mutely eloquent ; thy smile a beam Of light ineffable, so sweet, so dear,
It wakes the heart from sorrow's darkest dream, Shedding a hallow'd lustre o'er our fate, And when it beams we are not desolate.
No! no ! when woman smiles we feel a charm
Thrown bright around us, binding us to earth; Her tender accents breathing forth the balm
Of pure affection, give to transport birth; Then life's wide sea is billowless and calm :
O lovely woman! thy consummate worth Is far above thy frailty - far above All earthly praise-Thou art the Light of Love.
SONG OF THE FORSAKEN.
And will she love thee as well as I ?
Will she do for thee what I have done? See all the pomps of the world pass by,
And look only for thee — beloved one ?
Will she feel when another pronounces thy name
All the thrilling sensations that I have done ? Pride when they praise thee, regret when they
blame, And tenderness always beloved one?
Will she watch when a cloud passes over thy brow,
And strive to chase it. as I have done ? Forgetting all but the thought that now
It is hers to console thee beloved one ?
Will she, undoubting, consent to resign
Friends long cherish'd as I have done ? Renounce them, forget them, nor ever repine,
Since thou art with her beloved one ?
And thou wilt not thou feel a
of regret, Thus remembering all that I have done? Have done I though forsaken would do so yet, And am thine, and thine only – beloved one !
Hon. MRS. NORTON,
THE HOUR OF LOVE.
It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high notes are heard ;
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word;
I'll lay me on the wintry lea
And sleep amid the cauld and weet; And ere another's bride I be
Oh! bring to me my winding sheet !
What can a helpless lassie do,
When ilka friend wad prove her foe, Wad gar
her break her dearest vow, And wed with ane she canna loe ?
Where is the heart that hath not bow'd,
A slave, Eternal Love! to thee ? Look on the cold, the
the proud, And is there one among them free ? The cold, the proud, -oh! Love has turn’d The marble till with fire it burn'd; The gay, the young, - alas ! that they Should ever bend beneath thy sway ! Look on the cheek the rose might own, The smile around like sunshine thrown ; The rose, the smile alike are thine, To fade and darken at thy shrine.
And what must love be in a heart
All passion's fiery depths concealing,
THE LOVE BORN OF SORROW.
Our love has been no summer-flower,
For joy's bright chaplet braided; Drooping when tempests darkly lower,
By grief's bleak winter faded.
We have not loved as those who plight
Their troth in sunny weather, While leaves are green, and skies are bright,
To tread life's path together.
But we have loved as those who tread
The thorny path of sorrow,
Yet deeper gloom to-morrow.
That thorny path, those cloudy skies,
Have drawn our spirits nearer, And render'd us, by holiest ties,
Each to the other dearer!