Amour, l'on doit bénir tes chaînes : WOMAN IS THE LIGHT OF LOVE. O Woman! Woman! thou art form'd to bless Bright as the sunbeam, as the morning fair. Flowers spring, and shed their roseate blossoms there, Shrouding the thorns that on thy pathway rise, 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. J. BIRD. 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 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 pang of regret, 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; And in the sky the stars are met, And on the leaf a browner hue, So softly dark, and darkly pure, When twilight melts beneath the moon away. BYRON. FRAGMENT. I'll lay me on the wintry lea And sleep amid the cauld and weet; 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? ROBERT TANNAHILL. Where is the heart that hath not bow'd, And what must love be in a heart All passion's fiery depths concealing, Which has, in its minutest part, More than another's depth of feeling? LANDON. THE LOVE BORN OF SORROW. Our love has been no summer-flower, 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 With clouds o'ercast. and cause to dread Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. That thorny path, those cloudy skies, Have drawn our spirits nearer, And render'd us, by holiest ties, |