One mutual flame inspires our bliss; The tender look, the melting kiss, Even years have not destroyed; Some sweet sensation, ever new, Springs up and proves the maxim true, That love can ne'er be cloy'd. Have I a wish?--'tis all for thee, Hast thou a wish?--'tis all for me, So soft our moments move, That angels look with ardent gaze, Well pleas'd to see our happy days, And bid us live--and love. If cares arise--and cares will come-- Thy bosom is my softest home, I'll lull me there to rest; And is there aught disturbs my fair? I'll bid her sigh out every care, And lose it in my breast. Have I a wish?--'tis all her own; All hers and mine are roll'd in one-- Our hearts are so entwined, That, like the ivy round the tree, Bound up in closest amity, 'Tis death to be disjoined. LAMENT. BY MARY E. BROOKS. Oh, weep not for the dead! Rather, oh rather give the tear To those that darkly linger here, When all besides are fled; Weep for the spirit withering In its cold cheerless sorrowing, Weep for the young and lovely one That ruin darkly revels on; But never be a tear-drop shed For them, the pure enfranchised dead. Oh, weep not for the dead! No more for them the blighting chill, The thousand shades of earthly ill, The thousand thorns we tread; Weep for the life-charm early flown, The spirit broken, bleeding, lone; Weep for the death pangs of the heart, Ere being from the bosom part; But never be a tear-drop given To those that rest in yon blue heaven. "AFFECTION WINS AFFECTION." BY EMMA C. EMBURY. Mine own beloved, believest thou ought of this? Oh! then no more My heart, o'er early faded dreams of bliss Its wail shall pour. Give me this hope, though only from afar It sheds its light, And, like yon dewy melancholy star, With tears is bright-- Let me but hope a heart with fondness fraught, That could not sin Against its worshipped idol, e'en in thought, Thy love may win: Let me but hope the changeless love of years, The tender care That fain would die to save thine eye from tears, Thy heart may share. Or let me hope at least that, when no more My voice shall meet The ear that listens only to think o'er Tones far more sweet; When the kind shelter of the grave shall hide This faded brow, This form once gazed upon with pride, With coldness now; When never more my weary steps of pain Around thee move, When loosed for ever is life's heavy chain, Love will win love. FEATS OF DEATH. BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON. _Ob: 1825, æt. 17._