Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee,
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit;
Fair, gentle as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee
As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon;

Or lingered mid the falling dew,
When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet,
And time, and care, and birthtime woes
Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose,
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
Whate'er charms me in tale or song.
When words descend like dews, unsought,
With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought,
And fancy in her heaven flies free,
They come, my love, they come from thee.

O, when more thought we gave, of old,
To silver, than some give to gold,
"T was sweet to sit and ponder o'er
How we should deck our humble bower;
'T was sweet to pull, in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit of fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for that brow of thine,
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow, and woods grow green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,
When fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like a rainbow through the shower;
O then I see, while seated nigh,
A mother's heart shine in thine eye,
And proud resolve and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak.
I think this wedded wife of mine,
The best of all that's not divine.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE.

How many summers, love,
Have I been thine?
How many days, thou dove,
Hast thou been mine?

Time, like the winged wind When 't bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind,

To count the hours!

Some weight of thought, though loath, On thee he leaves;

Some lines of care round both

Perhaps he weaves;

Some fears, a soft regret

For joys scarce known; Sweet looks we half forget;

All else is flown!

Ah!-With what thankless heart
I mourn and sing!

Look, where our children start,
Like sudden spring!

With tongues all sweet and low
Like a pleasant rhyme,
They tell how much I owe
To thee and time!

BARRY CORNWALL.

IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE, MY LOVE.
If thou wert by my side, my love,
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale !

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,

How gayly would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray,
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind, approving eye,
Thy meek, attentive ear.

But when at morn and eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still,

O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, Nor mild Malwah detain;

For sweet the bliss us both awaits

By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea;

But ne'er were hearts so light and gay

As then shall meet in thee!

REGINALD HEBER.

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go : And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

And, love, what changes we have seen,

cares and pleasures, too,

Though cares we've known, with hopeful hearts the worst we've struggled through;

old ring was new!

Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to you,

Mild is Maire bhan astór,

Mine is Maire bhan astór,

And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new.

O FAIREST of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflowered, and now to death devote! Rather, how hast thou yielded to transgress The strict forbiddance, how to violate

The sacred fruit forbidden! Some curséd fraud
Of enemy hath beguiled thee, yet unknown,
And me with thee hath ruined, for with thee
Certain my resolution is to die.

How can I live without thee, how forego
Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined,
To live again in these wild woods forlorn?
Should God create another Eve, and I
Another rib afford, yet loss of thee
Would never from my heart; no, no, I feel
The link of nature draw me: flesh of flesh,
Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state
Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.

And too impatiently stamped with your foot:
Yet I insisted, yet you answered not;
But, with an angry wafture of your hand,
Gave sign for me to leave you: So I did;
Fearing to strengthen that impatience,
Which seemed too much enkindled; and withal
Hoping it was but an effect of humor,
Which sometime hath his hour with every

man.

It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep,
And, could it work so much upon your shape,
As it hath much prevailed on your condition,
I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord,
Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.
BRU. I am not well in health, and that is
all.

POR. Brutus is wise, and were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it.

BRU. Why, so I do :-good Portia, go to bed. POR. Is Brutus sick, —and is it physical To walk unbraced, and suck up the humors Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick, And will he steal out of his wholesome bed, To dare the vile contagion of the night, And tempt the rheumy and unpurgéd air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus ; You have some sick offence within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of: And upon my knees I charm you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, Why you are heavy; and what men to-night Have had resort to you, for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness.

BRU.

Kneel not, gentle Portia. POR. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus.

Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,
Is it expected, I should know no secrets
That appertain to you? Am I yourself
But, as it were, in sort or limitation,

To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the

suburbs

Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,
Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife.

BRU. You are my true and honorable wife;
As dear to me, as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sad heart.

POR. If this were true, then should I know

this secret.

I grant I am a woman; but, withal,

A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife :
I grant I am a woman; but, withal,
A woman well-reputed, Cato's daughter.