From life's low vale, where humbler joys invite; THE FAREWELL. BY JOHN I. BAILEY. OH! leave me still thy tender heart, No more I'll gaze on smiles of thine, Loved smiles! that once around me shone, The auburn ringlets of thy hair May twine as graceful still, and let themThose locks were once as loved as fair, Yet lost to me, I'll ne'er regret them. Yes! I could view those curls entwine Around another's hand that wreath'd them; Unmoved, recall those tones divine, Once sweet as were the lips that breath'd them! Thy form no longer wears the spell, As when a lover's dreams it haunted; Nor can affection fondly dwell On every grace that once enchanted. Then fare thee well! thou'st broke the chain; I would not seek their wiles again, I only ask-to be thy brother. SONNET TO MYRA. BY A. L. BLAUVELT. How sad the exile from his native skies Doom'd on the shade of parted bliss to dwell No ear to catch his penitential sighs, No voice to soothe him in his last farewell. Where ling'ring fancy loves to feign And beckons madness to her grave, Where, cradled by the surge to rest, Low sighs the passing gale, "Despair is blest." TO CORDELIA. BY JOHN I. BAILEY. SMILE not, sweet girl, 'tis even so- My words, though not so sweet, I know, And if I must be sworn to prove Nay, look not angry thus, 'tis vainI value not thy frowns a feather— "Tis not thy nature to retain An unkind thought for hours together. I envy not thy lover's joys, Nor flattering smiles that so endear them; Thy brittle chains caprice destroys; Oh! who on earth would wish to wear them? Yes! I could give thee many a name Of those who've waked thy tender bosom; A flame succeeding still to flame, Yet thou wert e'er content to lose 'em. Content to wound that bosom too, That had for years, unchanged, ador'd thee; Oh! when thou held'st a heart so true, What joy could ranging thus afford thee? I trust an angel's form thou'lt wear Or I a tale could give in there, Would leave thee lost and unforgiven. SONG. WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND THEE. BY G. P. MORRIS. WHEN other friends are round thee, Yet do not think I doubt thee; And whatever fate betides me, This heart still turns to thee. DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. BY WILLIS G. CLARK. YOUNG mother, he is gone, His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast, Float from his lips to thine all fondly prest; |