Time, the Physician of Disappointed Love.

TIME,

The Physician of Disappointed Love.

Venus in her car descended,

Drawn by little harmless doves, Sportive graces round attended,

With a smiling band of loves.

Roses in a chaplet crown'd her,

And she chose her flowery seat Where the songsters warbled round her Hudson's billows kiss'd her feet.

There I saw the queen of beauty,
Fondling Cupid in her arms,

And approach'd to pay my duty,
Ravish'd with her glowing charms.

"Goddess, famed in ancient legends"-
I exclaim'd-in posture low-
"Queen of love's celestial regions,
"Welcome to the realms below!

"I am told, the glance which captures, "Springs alone from power of thine; then, love's burning raptures, Teach me love—and bliss is mine.”

Give me,

Time, the Physician of disappointed Love.

Venus smil❜d at my petition,

Gave the urchin's dart a kiss,

Who exclaim'd, "mama's permission "Gives you now the promised bliss.

"Here's the means, and skill'd to use 'em,

"I but seldom miss the heart”Then within my throbbing bosom Quick I felt the trembling dart.

How my glowing pulses bounded!
Like our sire, ere known to sin,
'Twas elysium that surrounded,
Joy and paradise within.

Hope, within her fragrant bowers,
Led me with a smile more sweet

Than the odoriferous flowers

Gaily blooming round our feet.

"Yes," I cried, "I thank thee, Venus, "Hope and bliss will ne'er depart" When a demon sprang between us, With a frown that froze the heart.

Hope beheld, and fled affrighted,
While the fiend's disastrous breath
Blasted all that had delighted,

Flowers and choristers, in death.

Time, the Physician of disappointed Love.

"Twas the fiend of DisappointmentHow his touch my bosom chill'd, Poison'd Hope's balsamic ointment, And my wound with anguish fill’d.

"Queen of beauty, treacherous Venus, "Save me from a fate like this; "Jove himself may judge between us, "Pain is all thy promised bliss."

"Mortal! ever discontented,

"Your unjust reproaches spare ; "Is your wish so soon repented? "Well, again I grant your prayer.

"Yon decrepit sage will heal you, "Whose approach appears so slow;

"Let his icy fingers feel you,

"And you must forget your wo."

Time approach'd his aid to proffer,
But I shrunk from his relief;
Hugg'd my pain-refused his offer,
For I found a joy in grief.

Lives there one, who loves sincerely,
Willing to forget the flame ?

No 'tis dissolution, nearly,

Nature will assert her claim.

My Mother's Grave-in Scituate, state of Massachusetts.

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

Written in a country Burial Place, in Scituate,
Massachusetts.

Aurora paints the orient skies with light,
With rosy pencil tinges every cloud,
Unfolds her gates upon the rear of NIGHT,

And strips the mountains of his sable shroud.

The conscious stars conceal their twinkling fires, Night's waning empress turns more sickly pale, Her votary the whizzing bat retires,

The owl suspends her harsh complaining tale.

The lark awakes and tunes his matin song,
And all the sylvan warblers join the theme,
The whistling ploughman drives his team along,
And sporting swans sail stately down the stream.

Adieu, dull couch! for nature more can please,
While o'er her rich enamel'd breast I stray,
Inhaling sweets which freight the balmy breeze,
Stolen in kisses from the lips of May.

The peach-bloom in the breathing zephyr plays,
And shakes soft odours from its silken leaves;
The apple, too, a silver garb displays,

Whence morning's breath a rich perfume receives.

My Mother's Grave.

Here let me stray, adown this mossy ridge;
Observe yon streamlet o'er the pebbles creep;
Pass o'er its little rude-constructed bridge,
To where, in silence, all our fathers sleep.

may I never pass this sacred spot,
Unmindful of the dust these walls enclose :
For here, partaking in the common lot,
A tender MOTHER's relics find repose!

Here various stones, on various models plann'd,
Discriminate between the rich and poor;
Some richly sculptured, by an artist's hand,
Some rudely lettered, and adorn'd no more.

But filial love and sorrow soon discern

The humble slate they consecrated here; The drooping willow weeping o'er the urn, The quoted motto, and the name most dear.

Yes, 'tis the same-beneath this turfy heap Lowly reclines the form which gave me birth; Those arms, the cradle of my earliest sleep,

Are nerveless now, and mingling with the earth.

Those lips, whose accents could my cares remove,

Are seal'd in silence, stiffen'd, cold, and dead! Those eyes, which beam'd with fond maternal love, Are closed in darkness, and their lustre fled !