And O, when I have safely past, Through every conflict--but the last, Still, still unchanging, watch beside, My painful bed--for thou hast died; Then point to realms of cloudless day, And wipe the latest tear away. A. B. C. TO MY WIFE, _On the Anniversary of her Wedding-day which was also her Birth-day._ BY SAMUEL BISHOP. "Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed"-- So, fourteen years ago, I said.-- Behold another ring!--"for what?" "To wed thee o'er again?"--Why not? With that first ring I married youth, Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth; Taste long admir'd, sense long rever'd, And all my Molly then appear'd. If she, by merit since disclos'd, Prove twice the woman I suppos'd, I plead that double merit now, To justify a double vow. Here then to-day, (with faith as sure, With ardour as intense, as pure, As when, amidst the rites divine, I took thy troth, and plighted mine,) To thee, sweet girl, my second ring A token and a pledge I bring: With this I wed, till death us part, Thy riper virtues to my heart; Those virtues, which before untried The wife has added to the bride: Those virtues, whose progressive claim, Endearing wedlock's very name, My soul enjoys, my song approves, For Conscience' sake, as well as love's. And why?--They shew me every hour, Honour's high thought, Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, And teach me all things--but repentance. THE ICELANDER'S SONG. From a MS. Volume of Poems, by Mr. G. RATHBONE. The southern may talk of his meads crown'd with flow'rs, Where the gale, breathing incense, unceasingly flies; He may vaunt the rich hue of his rose-tangled bowers Or the sapphire and gold of his bright sunny skies; But it is not a theme that will light up emotion In an Icelander's breast; since his pride and his boast Are his hoar-cover'd mountains, that frown on the ocean, Lit up with the ice-blink that girdles the coast. When the winter of night darkles round him all dreary, And his snow-bosom'd hills mourn the absence of day, With a heart void of care, and with limbs seldom weary, He launches his bark in pursuit of his prey; Rough is his bed, and uneasy his pillow, When far off in ocean he rambles from home; Blithe scuds his boat, as her prow cleaves the billow Of the gem-spangled brine, with its ridges of foam. Dear is the dawn of the fork'd northern light, That illumines old Hecla's broad cone with its rays; And dearer its splendour, increasingly bright, When the peaks of the ice-bergs appear in the blaze: Brightly it plays on his dart's glossy pride, When it flies, steep'd in spray, on the snake's scaly crest, To bury its point in the whale's finny hide, Or flesh its curv'd barb in the sea-lion's chest.