Thus shall the moments fly Sweetly along, Tuned to thy minstrelsy, Cheered by thy song; Till as the light declines Far in the west, Thou, 'mid the trellis'd vines, Hush thee to rest. THE MIDNIGHT BALL. BY MISS ELIZABETH BOGART. She's bid adieu to the midnight ball, And cast the gems aside, Which glittered in the lighted hall: Her tears she cannot hide. She weeps not that the dance is o'er, The music and the song; She weeps not that her steps no more Are follow'd by the throng. Her memory seeks one form alone Within that crowded hall; Her truant thoughts but dwell on one At that gay midnight ball. And thence her tears unbidden flow-- She's bid adieu to him; The light of love is darken'd now-- All other lights are dim. She throws the worthless wreath away That deck'd her shining hair; She tears apart the bright bouquet Of flowrets rich and rare. The leaves lie scattered at her feet, She heeds not where they fall; She sees in them an emblem meet To mark the midnight-ball. THE DESERTED BRIDE. [_Suggested by a Scene in the Play of the Hunchback._] BY G. P. MORRIS. "Love me!--No--he never loved me!" Else he'd sooner die than stain One so fond as he has proved me With the hollow world's disdain. False one, go--my doom is spoken, And the spell that bound me broken! Wed him!--Never.--He has lost me!-- Tears!--Well, let them flow!--His bride?-- No.--The struggle life may cost me! But he'll find that I have pride! Love is not an idle flower, Blooms and dies the self-same hour. Titles, lands, and broad dominion, With himself to me he gave; Stoop'd to earth his spirit's pinion, And became my willing slave! Knelt and pray'd until he won me-- Looks he coldly now upon me? Ingrate!--Never sure was maiden Wronged so foul as I. With grief My true breast is overladen-- Tears afford me no relief.-- Every nerve is strained and aching, And my very heart is breaking! Love I him?--Thus scorned and slighted-- Thrown, like worthless weed, apart-- Hopes and feelings sear'd and blighted-- Love him?--Yes, with all my heart! With a passion superhuman-- Constancy, "thy name is woman." Love nor time, nor mood, can fashion-- Love?--Idolatry's the word To speak the broadest, deepest passion, Ever woman's heart hath stirr'd! Vain to still the mind's desires, Which consume like hidden fires! Wreck'd and wretched, lost and lonely, Crush'd by grief's oppressive weight, With a prayer for Clifford only, I resign me to my fate. Chains that bind the soul I've proven Strong as they were iron-woven.