TO A FALSE FRIEND.

OUR hands have met, but not our hearts;
Our hands will never meet again.
Friends if we have ever been,
Friends we cannot now remain ·
I only know I loved you once,
I only know I loved in vain;

Our hands have met, but not our hearts;
Our hands will never meet again!

Then farewell to heart and hand!
I would our hands had never met:
Even the outward form of love
Must be resigned with some regret.
Friends we still might seem to be,
If my wrong could e'er forget

Our hands have joined, but not our hearts:
I would our hands had never met!

THE POET'S PORTION.

WHAT is a mine a treasury a dower

-

A magic talisman of mighty power?
A poet's wide possession of the earth.
He has the enjoyment of a flower's birth
Before its budding-ere the first red streaks,--
And winter cannot rob him of their cheeks.
Look if his dawn be not as other men's!
Twenty bright flushes-ere another kens
The first of sunlight is abroad - he sees
Its golden 'lection of the topmost trees,
And opes the splendid fissures of the morn.
When do his fruits delay, when doth his corn

Linger for harvesting? Before the leaf
Is commonly abroad, in his piled sheaf
The flagging poppies lose their ancient flame.
No sweet there is, no pleasure I can name,
But he will sip it first before the lees.

'Tis his to taste rich honey,—ere the bees Are busy with the brooms. He may forestall June's rosy advent for his coronal;

Before the expectant buds upon the bough,
Twining his thoughts to bloom upon his brow.
O! blest to see the flower in its seed,

Before its leafy presence; for indeed

Leaves are but wings, on which the summer flies, And each thing perishable fades and dies, Escaped in thought; but his rich thinkings be Like overflows of immortality.

So that what there is steeped shall perish never, But live and bloom, and be a joy forever.

SONG.

O LADY, leave thy silken thread
And flowery tapestrie:
There's living roses on the busn,

And blossoms on the tree;

Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet;

Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find
The daisy at thy feet.

"T is like the birthday of the world,

When earth was born in bloom;

The light is made of many dyes,

The air is all perfume;

There's crimson buds, and white and blue
The very rainbow showers

Have turned to blossoms where they fell,

And sown the earth with flowers.

There's fairy tulips in the east,

The garden of the sun;

The very streams reflect the hues,
And blossom as they run :
While Morn opes like a crimson rose,
Still wet with pearly showers;
Then, lady, leave the silken thread
Thou twinest into flowers!

TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY.

I HEARD a gentle maiden, in the spring,
Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing:
"Fly through the world, and I will follow thee,
Only for looks that may turn back on me;

Only for roses that your chance may

throw

Though withered I will wear them on my brow,

To be a thoughtful fragrance to my brain;

Warmed with such love, that they will bloom again.

"Thy love before thee, I must tread behind,
Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind;
But trust not all her fondness, though it seem,
Lest thy true love should rest on a false dream.

"Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet:
But smiles betray, and music sings deceit;

And words speak false; yet, if they welcome prove, I'll be their echo, and repeat their love.

"Only if wakened to sad truth, at last,

The bitterness to come, and sweetness past; When thou art vext, then, turn again, and see Thou hast loved Hope, but Memory loved thee."

FLOWERS.

I WILL not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly quean,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun;

But I will woo the dainty rose,

The queen of every one.

The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,

And clasps her rings on every hand;
The wolfsbane I should dread; -
Nor will I dreary rosemarye,
That always mourns the dead;
But I will woo the dainty rose,

With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,

And so is no mate for me

And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush,

She is of such low degree;

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,

And the broom's betrothed to the bee;

But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.

ΤΟ

STILL glides the gentle streamlet on,
With shifting current new and strange;
The water that was here is gone,
But those green shadows never change.

Serene or ruffled by the storm,

On present waves, as on the past,
The mirrored grove retains its form,

The self-same trees their semblance cast.

The hue each fleeting globule wears
That drop bequeaths it to the next;
One picture still the surface bears,
To illustrate the murmured text.

So, love, however time may flow,
Fresh hours pursuing those that flee,
One constant image still shall show
My tide of life is true to thee.