Those who love like me, When their meeting ends Friends can hardly be, But less or more than friends! With common words, and smiles, We cannot meet, and part, For something will prevent-- Something in the heart! The thought of other days, The dream of other years; With other words, and smiles, And other sighs and tears! For all who love like me, When their parting ends, Friends must never be, But more or less than friends! TO THE WINDS Blow fair to-day, ye changing Winds! And smooth the story sea; For now ye waft a sacred bark, And bear a friend from me. From you he flies, ye Northern Winds, Your Southern mates to seek; So urge his keel until he feels Their kisses on his cheek: And when their tropic kisses warm, And tropic skies impart, Their floods of sunshine to his veins, Their gladness to his heart-- Blow fair again, ye happy Winds! And smooth again the sea, For then ye'll waft the blessed bark, And bear my friend to me! "WIND OF SUMMER, MURMUR LOW." Wind of summer, murmur low, Where the charméd waters flow, While the songs of day are dying, And the bees are homeward flying, As the breezes come and go. Come and go, hum and blow, Winds of summer, sweet and low, Ere my lover sinks to rest, While he lies upon my breast, Kiss his forehead, pale and fair, Kiss the ringlets of his hair, Kiss his heavy-lidded eyes, Where the mist of slumber lies; Kiss his throat, his cheek, his brow, And his red, red lips, as I do now, While he sleeps so sound and slow, On the heart that loves him so, Dreaming of the sad, and olden, And the loving, and the golden Wind of summers long ago! THE LATE ELIOT WARBURTON. The melancholy fate of the author of _The Crescent and the Cross_, _Canada_, _Darien_, &c., has been stated in these pages. In Great Britain, where he was well known and highly esteemed by literary men, there have been many feeling and apparently just tributes to his memory, one of the most interesting of which is a memoir in the _Dublin University Magazine_, from which we transcribe the following paragraphs: