Is it not Sweet.

Is it not sweet to think, hereafter,
When the spirit leaves this sphere,
Love, with deathless wings, shall waft her

To those she long hath mourn'd for here?
Hearts, from which 't was death to sever,
Eyes, this world can ne'er restore,

There, as warm, as bright as ever,
Shall meet us and be lost no more.

When wearily we wander, asking

Of earth and heaven, where are they, Beneath whose smile we once lay basking,

Blest and thinking bliss would stay! Hope still lifts her radiant finger,

Pointing to the eternal home, Upon whose portal yet they linger,

Looking back for us to come.

Alas! alas! doth Hope deceive us?

Shall friendship,-love, shall all those ties

That bind a moment, and then leave us,

Be found again where nothing dies? Oh! if no other boon were given,

To keep our hearts from wrong and stain, Who would not try to win a heaven

Where all we love shall live again?

T. MOORE.

Wishes.

Oh! give me back the sunny smile
Of childhood's happy days,
Ere my unwearied feet had learned,
To tread life's wildering maze.
Yes, give me back that smile of joy,
That sinless smile without alloy.

And once again, oh! give me back

My happy, careless heart,

A heart which never had been pierced,
By sin's envenomed dart;
A heart untainted, free from sin,
And sweet untroubled peace within.

"T is vain! such wishes all are vain!
Those days can come no more!

They 've passed adown time's rolling wave, To dark oblivion's shore.

Though past, in memory still they dwell,

And cheer me with their magic spell.

Those smiles so sweet, can ne'er again
Illume with radiance bright,

The heart which once no sorrow knew,

Can never more be light.

No! life's bright morning sun has passed,

And o'er my brow a shade has cast.

Olive Branch.

He is thy brother yet.

What though his erring feet
Have stumbled in the way,

And in a thoughtless hour
He has been led astray;
The great Creator's seal
Upon his brow is set,
And fallen though he be,
He is thy brother yet.

Look with a tender eye
Upon that clouded brow,

And win him if you can

To paths of virtue now;

But oh forbear to bend

Thy cold and distant gaze

Upon thy early friend,

The loved of other days.

Will not the happy hours

That blessed your younger years,

When he was by thy side

In mirthfulness and tears,

Will not the thought of these

Within thy heart beget

A sad, yet sweet response,

He is my brother yet?

And when in later life,

Where science holds her sway,

You travel'd hand in hand

The devious, winding way, Until hidden mines

Of rich mysterious lore Had paid you for the ease You bartered, to explore.

Behold the path of fame

That opens to your view, And tremble when you tread Its giddy mazes too;

And if you do not ask,

Some higher power to guide Your ever varying bark,

As on the storm you ride, —

That proud majestic step,

And lofty soul of thine,

May all be made to bow,

To dark misfortune's shrine; And then, when trials come, You never will regret

You owned the wayward one

To be thy brother yet.

J. L. BUFFORD.

Whene'er I see.

Whene'er I see those smiling eyes,

All filled with hope, and joy, and light,
As if no cloud could ever rise,

To dim a heaven so purely bright,-
I sigh to think how soon that brow
In grief may lose its every ray,
And that light heart, so joyous now,
Almost forget it once was gay.

For time will come with all his blights,

The ruin'd hope, — the friend unkind, – The love that leaves, where'er it lights,

A chill or burning heart behind!
While youth, that now like snow appears,
Ere sullied by the darkening rain,

When once 't is touch'd by sorrow's tears,
Will never shine so bright again.

T. MOORE.