THE MAIDEN'S GRIEF.

They sin who tell us love can die.

SOUTHEY.

I KNOW it is a vain wild dream,
The love for thee I've cherished;

I would, as die the tender leaves,
That it with hope had perished;-

But oh! love dieth not with hope,

It lights her funeral pyre,

Which smoulders in the ruined heart,

A slow consuming fire.

I do not ask thee e'er to take

This stricken heart of mine;

I only tell thee of its flame,
And that it all is thine:

I do not ask thee to forego

The charms that I have not,

Proud wealth, and Beauty's witchery,

To share my lonely lot.

I have no hope in loving thee-
But oh! I ask to love,
And be the gentle guardian

To lead thy thoughts above.

Thy form is ever in my sleep,

Thy voice I ever hear

Thine is the name I breathe to heaven

When bent in silent prayer.

THE REQUEST.

WHEN this life shall cease to be,
Lay me not in this cold clime,
Where there is no melody

In the birds' or zephyr's chime;
Where the icy mountains frown,

Where the moon looks bleakly down

Hearts are far too cold to weep

O'er the humble poet's sleep.

Bear me to my sunny land,

Where the airs are pure and bland;

Where the birds are ever singing,
Fountains clearly, softly ringing,

Flowerets opening into bloom
Breathing every where perfume;
Where the Chesapeake is flowing,
Where the placid skies are glowing,
Where my father's ashes lie,

Where the guardian seraphs sigh,

And above the early dead

Angels' dewy tears are shed,

Lay me in my silent sleep,

Where warm hearts will come and weep.

MY SWEET GUITAR.

WHEN stars are burning in the sky,
The lonely moon pursues her flight,
And wakes again the memory

Of faded years and sorrow's blight-
The thousand spells-the hallowed dreams,
That fleet as rainbow hues depart,
Leaving behind no cheering beams
To light this lone benighted heart,
And clouds eclipsing Love's pure star,
I come to thee, my sweet guitar!

For when my heart is sick and lone,

And pines for friendship's soothing word

There is a magic in thy tone,

A sympathy in thy low chords,

That banishes my spirit's dole,

Bids every gloomy thought depart, And breathes such joy into my soul

As mortals never can impart,

Nor wealth nor fame on me confer

My sweet-my ever-loved guitar!