And in the midst of this Elysian dream,"

Lo, Gold- the demon Gold! - alas! the creeds

Of the false land!

SIR E. L. BULWER.

Love is a gift which God hath given

To man alone beneath the heaven.
It is the secret sympathy,

The silver link, the silken tie,

Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,

In body and in soul can bind.

SCOTT.

THE SAILOR LOVER.

My bark shall be our home;—

The gale shall chant our bridal melodies ;-
The stars that light the angel palaces

Of air, our lamps;—our floor, the crystal deep
Studded with sapphires sparkling as we pass ; —
Our roof, all Heaven!- my beautiful, my own!
Never did sail more gladly glide to port
Than I to thee! my anchor in thy faith,
And in thine eyes my haven!

SIR E. L. Bulwer.

DOMESTIC LOVE.

Oh! happy they, the happiest of their kind!
Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate

Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend.
'Tis not the coarser ties of human laws,
Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind,
That binds their peace, but harmony itself,
Attuning all their passions into love:

Where friendship full exerts her softest

power,

Perfect esteem, enliven'd by desire

Ineffable, and sympathy of soul;

Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will, With boundless confidence; for nought but love Can answer love, and render bliss secure.

THOMSON.

FLOWERS LOVE'S LANGUAGE.
Beautiful language! Love's peculiar own,
But only to the spring and summer known.
Ah! little marvel in such clime and age
As that of our too earth-born pilgrimage,
That we should daily hear that Love is fled,
And Hope grown pale, and lighted feelings dead.
Not for the cold, the careless to impart,
By such sweet signs, the silence of the heart;
But surely in the countries where the sun
Lights loveliness in all he shines upon,-

Where Love is as a mystery and a dream,

One single flower upon life's troubled stream;
There, there, perchance, may the young bosom thrill,
Feeling and Fancy linger with Love still.

'Tis sweet to hear

LANDON.

At midnight, o'er the blue and moonlit deep, The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep: 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear;

'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high

The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

'Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark

Our coming, and look brighter when we come. 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark,

Or lull'd with falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

But sweeter far than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate love: It stands alone
Like Adam's recollection of his fall.

BYRON.

LOVE'S REMEMBRANCE.

I will remember thee,— in that still hour

When, like a dream of beauty, from the west, Heaven's sweetest star sheds down her golden dower Of light upon the waters, -whose unrest And moodiness might well be charm'd the pure loveliness of that soft ray!

By

away,

I will remember thee,—when night hath thrown
Its dreams around the sleeper, and repose
Hath calm'd the worn and aching spirit down
To brief oblivion of its waking woes:

Then, when deep silence reigneth over all,

My lonely thoughts thine image shall recal.

I will remember thee,-when morn hath hung
Her banner on the hills, and kindling gleams
Of sunlight, in warm diamond showers are flung
Upon the surface of the bounding streams,
Which move in their exulting course along,
Free as the murmurs of their own wild song.

I will remember thee,—when summer's sigh Breathes o'er the mountains, and the laughing earth Is zoned with roses,-while deep melody

Hath in the woods, with the wild flowers its birth From joyous birds, who mid their green homes there Pour forth their music on the clear blue air

I will remember thee,- through many a scene
Of pleasantness and solitude; for thou
Upon my dark and troubled path hast been

A vision blest and cheering,— as the bow That spans the thunder-cloud: a thing of light, As early hope's first dreamings pure and bright. ELIZA ACTON.

LOVE.

Oh! Love hath wings on which we fly,
To breathe in joy's unclouded sky!
And Love hath wings, on which we go
Down to the hopeless depths of woe!
Love is a light in sorrow's night,

It shines with pure and gladdening ray,
And Love is a flame which from heaven came,
A beacon that shines o'er our earthly way.

When kindred hearts in rapture meet,
When e'en their plaintive sighs are sweet,
Then dwells celestial bliss below,

Then flies all thought of care or woe!
Then trip the hours o'er summer flowers;
Then life glides like a gentle stream:

Earth yields no bliss so sweet as this,

Though it sometimes fade like an earthly dream.