Then would music no more be a nice thing of art, But as in old time the true voice of the heart.

I could sing all day long-sing song after song,
Like an angel singing clearly,

But I cannot sing now, I protest, I vow,
Because I love you dearly.

THE SOLACE OF SONG.

WHEN on my mother's arm I lay
A happy helpless thing,
Still was I glad by night and day
To hear my mother sing.

Baby, baby, do not cry,
It was a lovely lullaby.

I was a boy, a wayward boy,
And yet I still would cling,
With something like a baby joy,
To any that could sing.

VOL. II.

Sing up, sing high, a merry lay,
For 'tis a merry holiday.

P

I was a youth, a sighing youth,

A zephyr of the spring,

And then I thought that all was truth
That I was fond to sing.

Sweetly, sweetly, let me die

In the soft breathing of a sigh.

But now, alas, I am a man,
And time has pruned my wing,

And I have but a little space
To flutter and to sing.

Singing to the autumn blast,

Be my sweetest song my last.

And should I live to be an old,
An old forgotten thing,
Yet never may my heart be cold
When holy maidens sing.

Holy, holy, may the Psalm

My very latest sense embalm!

WHEN I was young

I gaily sung,

And little cared how badly;

But sure the line

Should be polish'd fine
That sings of sorrow sadly.

The joke the fun

The puff-the pun—
However bad they may be,

We let them pass

As glibly as

The babble of a baby.

But who would make

A good heart ache

Should make the good heart stronger;

For holy grief,

Though sharp, is brief,

And brings a joy much longer.

A SONG WITHOUT A TUNE.

A SONG without a tune

I made in the month of June, Eighteen hundred and forty-eight; 'Tis right to be exact in date.

Sweet lassy, parted we have been
A full twelvemonth and more,
And many a change the world has seen,
And many a heart been sore.

Kings that were mighty monarchs then,
Are not, or nothing are but men.

And

many a maid that loved a man Of wealth and high degree,

Must try to love him, if she can,

In perilous poverty.

For in the wild creed of the time,

To have been rich is deem'd a crime.

We were not rich, we were not kings, We are just where we were;

No hope has borne us on its wings,

To drop us in despair.

I might forget an hour had pass'd Since the sweet hour I saw thee last,

Thou art so very like the maid

I saw twelve months ago;

And yet almost I am afraid
Thou dost not feel it so.

Thou art, my love, the same to me,
But am I quite the same to thee?

The lines are deeper on my brow,
The corners of my eyes
Are quaintly netted, I allow,

As wings of dragon flies;

My cheek the red and yellow dapple, Much like a last year's russet apple.

A

year is nothing to a man That forty years hath seen; But, ah! it is no little span

"Twixt fifteen and sixteen.

Now I perceive a year hath flown,
And thou almost a woman grown.