"And there is one that loves me well, with yet a gentle love-- Oh! is not _her_ full, boundless faith, all power, all wealth above? Must a deep gulf between the souls--now closely link'd, be set? Keep, keep the Sceptre!--leave me free, and loved, and trustful yet!" Then from the old man's haughty lips was heard the sad reply-- "Well hast thou chosen!--I blame thee not--I that unwept must die; Live, thou beloved, and trustful yet! No more on human head, Be the sorrows of unworthy gifts from bitter vials shed!" _Blackwood's Magazine._ * * * * * A MOORE-ISH MELODY. Oh! give me not unmeaning smiles, Though worldly clouds may fly before them; But let me see the sweet blue isles Of radiant eyes when tears wash o'er them. Though small the fount where they begin, They form--'tis thought in many a sonnet-- A flood to drown our sense of sin; But oh! Love's ark still floats upon it. Then give me tears--oh! hide not one; The best affections are but flowers, That faint beneath the fervid sun, And languish once a day for showers. Yet peril lurks in every gem-- For tears are worse than swords in slaughter: And man is still subdued by them, As humming-birds are shot with water. _Monthly Magazine_ * * * * * THE LAST WORDS OF A MOTH. I burn--I die--I cannot fly-- Too late, and all in vain: The glow--the light--charmed sense and sight-- Now naught is left but pain. That wicked flame, no pencil's aim, No pen can e'er depict on paper; My waltz embraced that taper waist, Till I am wasted like a taper. Worthy the brightest hours of Greece Was that pure fire, or so _I_ felt it; Its feeder towered in steadfast peace, While I believed for me it melted. No use in heighos! or alacks! My cure is past the power of money; Too sure that form of virgin wax Retained the bee's sting with the honey. Its eye was blue, its head was cold, Its round neck white as lilied chalice; In short, a thing of faultless mould, Fit for a maiden empress' palace. So round and round--I knew no better-- I fluttered, nearer to the heat; Methought I saw an offered letter-- Now I but see my winding-sheet. Some pearly drops fell, as for grief--- Oh, sad delusion;--ah, poor Moth! I caused them not; 'twas but a thief Had got within to wrong us both, Now I am left quite in the dark, The light's gone out that caused my pain; Let my last gaze be on that spark-- Kind breezes, blow it in again. Then snuff it well, when once rekindled, Whoe'er about its brilliance lingers, But though 'twere to one flicker kindled, Be careful, or you'll burn your fingers. It sought not me; and though I die, On such bright cause I'll cast no scandal-- I fled to one who could not fly-- Then blame the Moth, but not the Candle. _Ibid._