Love thee, dearest?--Hear me.--Never Will my fond vows be forgot! May I perish, and for ever, When, dear maid, I love thee not! Turn not from me, dearest!--Listen! Banish all thy doubts and fears! Let thine eyes with transport glisten! What hast thou to do with tears? Dry them, dearest!--Ah, believe me, Love's bright flame is burning still! Though the hollow world deceive thee, Here's a heart that never will! Dost thou smile?--A cloud of sorrow Breaks before Joy's rising sun! Wilt thou give thy hand?--To-morrow, Hymen's bond will make us one! I Love the Night. I love the night when the moon streams bright On flowers that drink the dew-- When cascades shout as the stars peep out, From boundless fields of blue; But dearer far than moon or star, Or flowers of gaudy hue, Or murmuring trills of mountain-rills, I love, I love, love--you! I love to stray at the close of the day, Through groves of forest-trees, When gushing notes from song-birds' throats Are vocal in the breeze. I love the night--the glorious night-- When hearts beat warm and true; But far above the night, I love, I love, I love, love--you! The Miniature. William was holding in his hand The likeness of his wife! Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand, With beauty, grace, and life. He almost thought it spoke:--he gazed Upon the bauble still, Absorbed, delighted, and amazed, To view the artist's skill. "This picture is yourself, dear Jane-- 'Tis drawn to nature true: I've kissed it o'er and o'er again, It is much like you." "And has it kissed you back, my dear?" "Why--no--my love," said he. "Then, William, it is very clear 'Tis not at all LIKE ME!" The Retort. Old Nick, who taught the village-school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was as stubborn as a mule, She was as playful as a rabbit. Poor Jane had scarce become a wife, Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country-polished life, And prim and formal as a Quaker. One day the tutor went abroad, And simple Jenny sadly missed him; When he returned, behind her lord She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him! The husband's anger rose!--and red And white his face alternate grew! "Less freedom, ma'am!"--Jane sighed and said, "OH, DEAR! I DIDN'T KNOW 'TWAS YOU!" Lines On A Poet. How sweet the cadence of his lyre! What melody of words! They strike a pulse within the heart Like songs of forest-birds, Or tinkling of the shepherd's bell Among the mountain-herds. His mind's a cultured garden, Where Nature's hand has sown The flower-seeds of poesy-- And they have freshly grown, Imbued with beauty and perfume To other plants unknown. A bright career's before him-- All tongues pronounce his praise; All hearts his inspiration feel, And will in after-days; For genius breathes in every line Of his soul-thrilling lays.