And listen to the sweet birds singing

In merry, merry glee,

The fountains through the green woods ringing

And leaping sportively,

And feel alone.

Then onward wind from hill to dale,
Midst scenes more wild and rude,

That still to cheer me ever fail

My heart's a solitude,

Forlorn and lone.

I gaze upon the quiet sky,

In starry splendor dressed,

And view beyond with fancy's eye

A world where angels rest,

Yet feel alone.

At any other time than this

These would my spirit cheer,

And animate it with the bliss

That becks me in yon sphere,

When I feel lone.

But since the voice of that dear one,

That Heaven has destined here

To guide my weary footsteps on,

Falls not upon mine ear,

I feel alone.

And not till he again shall come

Can this sad heart know bliss,

My weary spirit reassume

Its wonted cheerfulness,

And not feel lone.

LINES ON SEEING THE INCONSTANT

WEEPING.

"Tis guilt! the canker-worm that clings.

. Its deadly fangs around thy heart,

And o'er thy soul its mildew flings,

And bids thy earthly peace depart.

Thy brow, false one! is pale and wan,
Thy bosom heaves with bitter sighs-
Ay, dost thou feel now thus forlorn ?—
Hast learned the slighted one to prize?

Alas! 'tis sad, but no less true,

That gems when ours lose half their gloss,
Though bright as heaven may be their hue-
And gold possessed is deemed but dross.

The heart thou mourn'st thou hast possessed,
Its every holy thought was thine;
It sought in thee but to be blessed,
Thy bosom was its earthly shrine.

False one! thou couldst not prize it then, Its hallowed love was spurned by thee— That heart can ne'er be thine again—

Thy falsehood bade it thence be free.

WHEN WE GIVE UP THE DEAD.

AROUND the couch may hover Death,

And steal away the parting breath ;

The sheet and shroud in pallid fold
May wrap our prostrate friends and cold,
Yet 'tis not then we give them up,
And taste grief's bitterest cup.

Their forms are in the coffin laid,

And earth's last sacred rite is paid;
The lid is closed, the grating screw
For ever shuts them from our view,
Yet 'tis not then we give them up,

And taste grief's bitterest cup.

But when the grave we gather round,
And lay them in the cold, damp ground,

And o'er its dark edge eager bend,

And hear the rumbling earth descend,

Ah! then it is we give them up,

And taste grief's bitterest cup.