A cot was reared by Mercy's hand
Amid the dreary wilderness,

It rose as if by magic wand,

A shelter to forlorn distress:

And weel I ken that Heaven will bless
The heart that issued the decree,
The widow and the fatherless
Can never pray, and slighted be.

I DO NOT LOVE THEE.

I do not love thee !-no! I do not love thee! And yet, when thou art absent, I am sad;

And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee, and be glad.

I do not love thee !—yet, I know not why, Whate'er thou dost, seems still well done, to me-And often in my solitude I sigh

That those I do love are not more like thee!

I do not love thee !-yet, when thou art gone, I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

I do not love thee !-yet, thy speaking eyes, With their deep, bright, and most expressive blueBetween me and the midnight heaven arise, Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

I know I do not love thee !-yet, alas! Others will scarcely trust my candid heart! And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, Because they see me gazing where thou art.

LATE REPENTANCE.

BY W. KENNEDY.

WOULD that the hour you called me thine,
Deserted girl, had been our last!
Before the star had ceased to shine,
Whose influence then was o'er us cast.
Would that we had not lingered here,
But, in the stillness of that dream,
Floated to some less troubled sphere,
Like rose-leaves down a summer stream.

Thy heart, to loneliness and grief,
Then had not been an early prey;

Nor had I felt my fond belief

In life's illusion, fade away.
Oh, more I had not lived to mourn
The choice I, in my madness, made
Of toys, by folly won and worn,

Which left, for banished peace, a shade.

The world-my uncomplaining love-
The world I wooed-avenged thee well—
The golden shower I prized above
Thy young affection, on me fell.
The hand of power, the voice of fame,
In later days have both been mine;
But never have I felt the same,

In heart, as when you called me thine.

LOVE.

BY HENRY NEELE.

LOVE is a plant of holier birth,

Than any that takes its root on earth;
A flower from heaven, which 'tis a crime
To number with the things of time;
Hope in the bud is often blasted,
And beauty on the desert wasted;
And joy, a primrose early gay,
Care's lightest foot-fall treads away.

But love shall live and live for ever,
And chance and change shall reach it never;
Can hearts in which true love is plighted,
By want or woe be disunited;

Ah! no, like buds on one stem born,
They share between them even the thorn
Which round them dwells, but parts them not
A lorn yet undivided lot.

Can death dissever love, or part

The loved one from the lover's heart?

No, no; he does but guard the prize
Sacred from moral injuries,
Making it purer, holier seem,
As the ice closing o'er the stream,
Keeps, while storms ravage earth and air,
All baser things from mingling there.

LYRE.

* D

SONG.

On, ask me not how long thy gentle love
Hath dwelt on me;

I only know 'tis long enough to prove
Thy constancy.

I cannot pause to number months, or days,
I know alone,

If to be faithful be Love's highest praise,
Thou wearest the crown.

Oh, thou hast loved me long enough to show
Thou canst not range;

And long enough to bid experience know
How others change.

Oh, long enough for the upbraiding thought,
That ne'er till now,

I prized thy love's rich treasure as I ought,
My all below.

Yes, I have seen full many a dream depart
With faithless speed;

And some, who should have gently used my heart,
Have made it bleed.

And I have rued Affection's broken vow,
And felt the chill

Of Friendship's altered eye-but, dearest, thou
Art faithful still.

Is she not beautiful, although so pale?
The first May flowers are not more colourless
Than her white cheek; yet I recall the time
When she was called the rose-bud of our village.
There was a blush, half modesty, half health,
Upon her cheek fresh as the summer morn
With which she rose. A cloud of chestnut curls
Like twilight darkened o'er her blue-veined brow;
And through their hazel curtains eyes whose light
Was like the violets when April skies

Have given their own pure colour to the leaves,
Shone sweet and silent as the twilight star.
And she was happy; innocence and hope
Make the young heart a paradise for love.
And she loved and was loved. The youth was one
That dwelt upon the waters. He had been
Where sweeps the blue Atlantic a wide world-
Had seen the sun light up the flowers like gems
In the bright Indian isles-had breathed the air
When sweet with cinnamon and gum and spice,
But he said that no air brought health or balm
Like that on his own hills, when it had swept
O'er orchards in their bloom, or hedges where
Blossomed the hawthorn and the honeysuckle ;-
That, but one voyage more and he would come
To his dear Ellen and her cottage home-
Dwell there in love and peace. And then he kissed
Her tears away, talked of the pleasant years
Which they should pass together-of the pride