Can you then say that love is happiness?
THERE were two Portraits :-one was of a Girl
Just blushing into woman; it was not
A face of perfect beauty, but it had
A most bewildering smile,-there was a glance
Of such arch playfulness and innocence,
That as you looked, a pleasant feeling came
Over the heart, as when you hear a sound
Of cheerful music. Rich and glossy curls
Were bound with roses, and her sparkling eyes
Gleamed like Thalia's, when some quick device
Of mirth is in her laugh. Her light step seemed
Bounding upon the air, with all the life,
The buoyant life, of one untouched by sorrow.
There was another,-drawn in after years :-
The face was young still; but its happy look
Was gone; the cheek had lost its colour, and
The lip its smile;-the light that once had played
Like sunshine in those eyes, was quenched and dim,
For tears had wasted it; her long dark hair
Floated upon her forehead, in loose waves,
Unbraided; and upon her pale thin hand
Her head was bent, as if in pain ;-no trace
Was left of that sweet gaiety which once
Seemed as if grief could darken not,-as care
Would pass and leave behind no memory.—
There was one whom she loved undoubtingly,
As youth will ever love, he sought her smile,
And said most gentle things, although he knew
Another had his vows.-Oh! there are some
Can trifle, in cold vanity, with all
The warm soul's precious throbs, to whom it is
A triumph that a fond devoted heart
Is breaking for them,-who can bear to call
Young flowers into beauty, and then crush them!
Affections trampled on, and hopes destroyed,
Tears wrung from very bitterness, and sighs
That waste the breath of life, these all were her's
Whose image is before me. She had given
Life's hope to a most fragile bark,-to love!
'Twas wrecked-wrecked by love's treachery! She knew,
Yet spoke not of his falsehood; but the charm
That bound her to existence was dispelled.—
Her days were numbered :-She is sleeping now.
When the rose blooms at Christmas,
I'll trust thee again,
Or the snow falls in summer,—
But never till then!
O'TIS a touching thing to make one weep!-
A tender infant with its curtained eye,
Breathing as it would neither live nor die,
With that unmoving countenance of sleep,-
As if its silent dream, serene and deep,
Had lined its slumbers with a still blue sky,-
So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie,
With no more life than roses, just to keep
The blushes warm and the mild odorous breath:
Oh blossom-boy! so calm is thy repose!
So sweet a compromise of life and death!
'Tis pity those fair buds should e'er unclose,
For Memory to stain their inward leaf,
Tinging thy dreams with unacquainted grief!
Thine eyelids slept so beauteously, I deemed
No eyes would wake more beautiful than they;
Thy glossy cheeks so unimpassioned lay,
I loved their peacefulness, and never dreamed
Of dimples; for thy parted lips so seemed
I did not think a smile could sweetlier play,
Nor that so graceful life could charm away
Thy graceful death, till those blue eyes upbeamed !
Now slumber lies in dimpled eddies drowned,
And roses bloom more rosily for joy;
And odorous silence ripens into sound,
And fingers move to mirth !—All-beauteous boy!
How dost thou waken into smiles, and prove,
If not more lovely, thou art more like Love!
London Magazine.
BY THE HON. ST. GEORGE TUCKER.
DAYS of my youth,
Ye have glided away ;
Hairs of my youth,
Ye are frosted and grey; Eyes of my youth,
Your keen sight is no more;
Cheeks of my youth,
Ye have furrowed all o'er;
Strength of my youth,
All your vigour is gone; Thoughts of my youth,
Your gay visions are flown.
Days of my youth,
I wish not your recall; Hours of my youth,
I'm content ye should fall;
Eyes of my youth,
You much evil have seen;
Cheeks of my youth,
Bathed in tears have you been ;
Thoughts of my youth,
Ye have led me astray;
Strength of my youth,
Why lament your decay.
Days of my age,
Ye will shortly be past; Pains of my age,
Yet awhile ye can last;
Joys of my age,
In true wisdom delight; Eyes of my age,
Be religion your light;
Thoughts of my age,
Dread ye not the cold sod;
Hopes of my age,
Be ye fixed on your God.
The Mirror of Literature.
BY THE REV. H. H. MILMAN.
I WOULD not from the wise require
The lumber of their learned lore;
Nor would I from the rich desire
A single counter of their store.
For I have ease, and I have health,
And I have spirits, light as air;
And more than wisdom, more than wealth,-
A merry heart, that laughs at care.
Like other mortals of my kind,
I've struggled for dame Fortune's favour,
And sometimes have been half inclined
To rate her for her ill behaviour.
But life was short-I thought it folly
To lose its moments in despair;
So slipped aside from melancholy,
With merry heart, that laughed at care.
And once, 'tis true, two 'witching eyes
Surprised me in a luckless season,
Turned all my mirth to lonely sighs,
And quite subdued my better reason.
Yet 'twas but love could make me grieve,
And love you know's a reason fair,
And much improved, as I believe,
The merry heart, that laughed at care.
|