'Twas on one morn, in spring-time weather, A rosy, warm, inviting hour, That Love and Faith went out together, And took the path to Beauty's bower. Love laughed and frolicked all the way, While sober Faith, as on they rambled, Allowed the thoughtless boy to play, But watched him, wheresoe'er he gamboled. So warm a welcome, Beauty smiled Upon the guests whom chance had sent her, That Love and Faith were both beguiled The grotto of the nymph to enter; And when the curtains of the skies The drowsy hand of Night was closing, Love nestled him in Beauty's eyes, While Faith was on her heart reposing. Love thought he never saw a pair So softly radiant in their beaming; Faith deemed that he could meet no where So sweet and safe a place to dream in; And there, for life in bright content, Enchained, they must have still been lying, For Love his wings to Faith had lent, And Faith he never dream'd of flying. But Beauty, though she liked the child, With all his winning ways about him, Upon his mentor never smiled, And thought that Love might do without him; Poor Faith abused, soon sighing fled, And now one knows not where to find him; While mourning Love quick followed Upon the wings he left behind him. 'Tis said, that in his wandering Love still around that spot will hover, Like bird that on bewildered wing Her parted mate pines to discover; And true it is that Beauty's door Is often by the idler haunted; But, since Faith fled, Love owns no more The spell that held his wings enchanted. THE LAST SONG. BY J. G. BROOKS. Strike the wild harp yet once again! Again its lonely numbers pour; Then let the melancholy strain Be hushed in death for evermore. For evermore, for evermore, Creative fancy, be thou still; And let oblivious Lethe pour Upon my lyre its waters chill. Strike the wild harp yet once again! Then be its fitful chords unstrung, Silent as is the grave's domain, And mute as the death-mouldered tongue, Let not a thought of memory dwell One moment on its former song; Forgotten, too, be this farewell, Which plays its pensive strings along! Strike the wild harp yet once again! The saddest and the latest lay; Then break at once its strings in twain, And they shall sound no more for aye: And hang it on the cypress tree, The hours of youth and song have passed, Have gone, with all their witchery; Lost lyre! these numbers are thy last. TO MY WIFE. BY LINDLEY MURRAY. When on thy bosom I recline, Enraptur'd still to call thee mine, To call thee mine for life, I glory in the sacred ties, Which modern wits and fools despise, Of Husband and of Wife.