Should Fate do its worst, and my spirit oppress'd, O'er its own shatter'd happiness pine-- Then say not the world is a desert of thrall, CUPID'S ARROW. Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day, ""Tis useless," he cried; "you must mend it, I say; There's something that's wrong in the shaft or the dart, 'Tis an age since it fairly went home to the heart, "I have straightened, I've bent, I've tried all, I declare, He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale, "There, take it, young sir; try it now-if it fail, I will ask neither fee nor reward." The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made; The wounded and dead were untold; But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade, NATURE'S GENTLEMAN. Whom do we dub as gentleman ?-the knave, the fool, the brute- 1837.] COOK. She may not spend her common skill about the outward part, But showers her beauty, grace, and light, upon the brain and heart; She may not choose ancestral fame his pathway to illumeThe sun that sheds the brightest day may rise from mist and gloom; Should fortune pour her welcome store and useful gold abound, He shares it with a bounteous hand, and scatters blessings round; The treasure sent is rightly spent, and serves the end designed, When held by Nature's gentleman-the good, the just, the kind. He turns not from the cheerless home where sorrow's offspring dwell; He'll greet the peasant in his hut-the culprit in his cell; He stays to hear the widow's plaint of deep and mourning love; He seeks to aid her lot below, and prompt her faith above: The orphan child-the friendless one-the luckless, or the poor, Will never meet his spurning frown, or leave his bolted door; His kindred circles all mankind-his country all the globeAn honest name his jewelled star, and truth his ermine robe. He wisely yields his passions up to reason's firm control; His pleasures are of crimeless kind, and never taint the soul; He may be thrown among the gay and reckless sons of life, But will not love the revel scene, or heed the brawling strife. He wounds no breast with jeer or jest, yet bears no honeyed tongue; He's social with the gray-haired one, and merry with the young; He gravely shares the council speech, or joins the rustic game, And shines as Nature's gentleman in every place the same. No haughty gesture marks his gait, no pompous tone his word, No studied attitude is seen, no palling nonsense heard; He'll suit his bearing to the hour-laugh, listen, learn, or teach; With joyous freedom in his mirth, and candor in his speech: He worships God with inward zeal, and serves him in each deed: He would not blame another's faith, nor have one martyr bleed : Justice and Mercy form his code-he puts his trust in Heaven; His prayer is, "If the heart mean well, may all else be forgiven!" Though few of such may gem the earth, yet such rare gems there are, Each shining in his hallowed sphere, as virtue's polar star; Though human hearts too oft are found all gross, corrupt, and dark, Yet, yet some bosoms breathe and burn, lit by Promethean spark; There are some spirits nobly just, unwarped by pelf or pride, Great in the calm, but greater still when dashed by adverse tide : They hold the rank no king can give-no station can disgrace; Nature puts forth her gentlemen, and monarchs must give place. THE MOURNERS. King Death sped forth in his dreaded power, To make the most of his silent hour; And the first he took was a white-rob'd girl, With the orange-bloom twin'd in each glossy curl; The fond betroth'd hung o'er her bier, Bathing her shroud with the gushing tear; He madly raved, he shriek'd his pain, "There's no joy," said he, "now my dearest is gone; Take, take me, Death! for I cannot live on!" The Sire was robb'd of his eldest born, And he bitterly bled while the branch was torn ; But none seem'd so bright as the deathless heir. My hopes are crush'd," was the father's cry; "Since my darling is lost, I, too, would die !" The valued Friend was snatch'd away, Bound to another from childhood's day; And the one that was left exclaim'd in despair, "Oh, he sleeps in the tomb, let me follow him there!" A Mother was taken, whose constant love Had nestled her child like a fair young dove; And the heart of that child to the mother had grown Death smil'd as he heard each earnest word- And if grief and devotion live on sincere, I promise thee then thou shalt share in the rest As thou dost this moment, my spear shall fall!” But the Lover was ardently wooing again, Rarer than that he had worshipp'd before; His step was gay, his laugh was loud, As he led the way for the bridal crowd; And his brow own'd not a moment's shade, Though he pass'd o'er the grave where his lost love laid: "Ha, ha!” cried Death, " 'tis passing clear That I am a guest not wanted here!" The Father was seen in his children's games Kissing their flush'd brows and blessing their names; And his eye grew bright as he mark'd the charms Of the boy at his knee and the girl in his arms; His voice rang out in the merry noise, He ruled their sports in the setting sun, Nor gave a thought to the missing one! "Are ye ready?" cried Death, as he raised his dart"Nay, nay," shrieked the father, "in mercy depart!" The Friend again was quaffing the bowl, His bosom cherish'd, with glowing pride, But the Orphan-Child-oh, where was she? Mingling the names of "Mother" and "God;" Fast weeping beneath the swollen lid; Hers was the love all holy and strong, Death linger'd there-and paus'd awhile, But she beckon'd him on with a welcoming smile: "There's a solace," cried he," for all others to find; But a mother leaves no equal behind!" And the kindest blow death ever gave Laid the mourning child in its parent's grave. THE LOVED ONE WAS NOT THERE. We gathered round the festive board, The crackling fagot blazed, But few would taste the wine that poured, For there was now a glass unfilled A favored place to spare; All eyes were dull, all hearts were chilled- No happy laugh was heard to ring, The grave had closed upon a brow, The honest, bright, and fair; We missed our mate, we mourned the blow- HOME IN THE HEART. Oh! ask not a home in the mansions of pride, Where love, once awakened, will never depart; And you'll find there's no home like a home in the heart. Oh! link but one spirit that's warmly sincere, That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care; Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just, And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare. Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart. HARVEST SONG. I love, I love to see Bright steel gleam through the land; The helmet and the spear Are twined with laurel wreath; But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear, I love to see the field That is moist with purple stain ; But not where bullet, sword, and shield, No, no; 'tis when the sun Shoots down his cloudless beams, Till the rich and bursting juice-drops run My glowing heart beats high But is not that which the miser's eye |