THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

Оn, my love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears,
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain,
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee,
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit,
Fair, gentle as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee
As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon;

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew,

When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet,
And time, and care, and birthtime woes
Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose,
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
Whate'er charms me in tale or song.
When words descend like dews, unsought,
With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought,
And fancy in her heaven flies free,
They come, my love, they come from thee.

Oh, when more thought we gave, of old,
To silver, than some give to gold,
'T was sweet to sit and ponder o'er
How we should deck our humble bower;
'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit of fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for that brow of thine-

A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow, and woods grow green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,
When fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;

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And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like a rainbow through the shower;
Oh then I see, while seated nigh,
A mother's heart shine in thine eye,
And proud resolve and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak.
I think this wedded wife of mine,

The best of all that's not divine.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

TO SARAH.

ONE happy year has fled, Sall,
Since you were all my own;

The leaves have felt the autumn blight,
The wintry storm has blown.
We heeded not the cold blast,

Nor the winter's icy air;

For we found our climate in the heart, And it was summer there.

The summer sun is bright, Sall,
The skies are pure in hue-
But clouds will sometimes sadden them,
And dim their lovely blue;

And clouds may come to us, Sall,

But sure they will not stay; For there's a spell in fond hearts To chase their gloom away.

In sickness and in sorrow

Thine eyes were on me still, And there was comfort in each glance To charm the sense of ill; And were they absent now, Sall,

I'd seek my bed of pain, And bless each pang that gave me back Those looks of love again.

Oh, pleasant is the welcome kiss

When day's dull round is o'er,
And sweet the music of the step
That meets me at the door.
Though worldly cares may visit us,
I reck not when they fall,
While I have thy kind lips, my Sall,
To smile away them all.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE