CUPID'S ARROW.

YOUNG Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day,
And besought him to look at his arrow.

""Tis useless," he cried; "you must mend it, I say; "Tisn't fit to let fly at a sparrow.

There's something that's wrong in the shaft or the dart, For it flutters quite false to my aim;

"Tis an age since it fairly went home to the heart, And the world really jests at my name.

"I have straightened, I've bent, I've tried all, I declare, I've perfumed it with sweetest of sighs;

'Tis feathered with ringlets my mother might wear, And the barb gleams with light from young eyes; But it falls without touching - I'll break it, I vow, For there's Hymen beginning to pout;

He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low That Zephyr might puff it right out."

Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale,
Till Vulcan the weapon restored.
"There, take it, young sir; try it now

if it fail,

I will ask neither fee nor reward."
The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made;
The wounded and dead were untold;

But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade,
For the arrow was laden with gold.

NIGHT.

THE God of day is speeding his way Through the golden gates of the west; The rosebud sleeps in the parting ray, The bird is seeking its nest.

love the light-yet welcome, Night
For, beneath thy darkling fall
The troubled breast is soothed in rest,
And the slave forgets his thrall.

The peasant child, all strong and wild,
Is growing quiet and meek;
All fire is hid 'neath his heavy lid,
The lashes yearn to the cheek.

He roves no more in gamesome glee,
But hangs his weary head,

And loiters beside the mother's knee
To ask his lowly bed.

The butterflies fold their wings of gold,
The dew falls chill in the bower,
The cattle wait at the kineyard gate;
The bee hath forsaken the flower;

The roar of the city is dying fast,
Its tongues no longer thrill;
The hurrying tread is faint at last,
The artizan's hammer is still.

Night steals apace.

She rules supreme;

A hallowed calm is shed:

No footstep breaks, no whisper wakes

'Tis the silence of the dead.

The hollow bay of a distant dog
Bids drowsy Echo start;

The chiming hour from an old churcn tower
Strikes fearfully on the heart.

All spirits are bound in slumber sound,
Save those o'er a death-bed weeping;

Or the soldier one that paces alone,
His guard by the watch-fire keeping.

With ebon wand and sable robe,

How beautiful, Night, art thou!

Serenely set on a throne of jet,
With stars about thy brow!

Thou com'st to dry the mourner's eye,
That, wakeful, is ever dim;

To hush for awhile the grieving sigh,
And give strength to the wearied limb.

Hail to thy sceptre, Ethiop queen!

Fair mercy marks thy reign;

For the care-worn breast may take its rest, And the slave forget his chain.

AWAY FROM THE REVEL.

AWAY from the revel! the night-star is up;
Away, come away, there is strife in the cup!
There is shouting of song, there is wine in the bowl;
But listen and drink, they will madden thy soul!

The foam of the goblet is sparkling and bright,
Rising like gems in the torches' red light;
But the glance of thine eye, if it lingers there,
Will change its mild beam for the maniac's glare.

The pearl-studded chalice, displaying in pride,
May challenge thy lip to the purple draught's tide;
But the pearl of the dew-drop, the voice of the breeze,
Are dearer, and calmer, more blessed than these.

Oh! come, it is twilight; the night-star is up;
Its ray is more bright than the silver-rimmed cup;
The boat gently dances, the snowy sail fills,
We'll glide o'er the waters, or rove on the hills.

We'll kneel on the mountain, beneath the dark pine;
Our hearts' prayer the incense, and nature the shrine;
Back on the festal we'll look from the wave,
As the eye of the free on the chains of the slave!

Oh! come, it is twilight; the moon is awake;
The breath of the vesper-chime rides o'er the lake;
There is peace all around us, and health in the breeze,
And what can be dearer, more blessed than these?

I MISS THEE, MY MOTHER.

I MISS thee, my Mother! Thy image is still
The deepest impressed on my heart,

And the tablet so faithful in death must be chill
Ere a line of that image depart.

Thou wert torn from my side when I treasured thee

most

When my reason could measure thy worth; When I knew but too well that the idol I'd lost Could be never replaced upon earth.

I miss thee, my Mother, in circles of joy,
Where I've mingled with rapturous zest ;

For how slight is the touch that will serve to destroy
All the fairy web spun in breast!
my

Some melody sweet may be floating around

"Tis a ballad I learnt at thy knee;

Some strain may be played, and I shrink from the

sound,

For my fingers oft woke it for thee.

I miss thee, my Mother; when young health has fled,
And I sink in the languor of pain,

Where, where is the arm that once pillowed my head
And the ear that once heard me complain?
Other hands may support, gentle accents may fall
For the fond and the true are yet mine:
I've a blessing for each; I am grateful to all

But whose care can be soothing as thine?