It Is Not The Tear At This Moment Shed.[1]

It is not the tear at this moment shed, When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept, 'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded; 'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light, Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them, For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, When we think how we lived but to love them. And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume Where buried saints are lying, So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom From the image he left there in dying!

These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who had died lately at Madeira.

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee, Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea; And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters roved, To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep, And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep; Till heaven looked with pity on true-love so warm, And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.

Still her bosom rose fair--still her cheeks smiled the same-- While her sea-beauties gracefully formed the light frame; And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell, Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell.

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone; Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove; When my dream of life, from morn till night, Was love, still love. New hope may bloom, And days may come,

Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream; No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth's past; Tho' he win the wise, who frowned before, To smile at last; He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And, at every close, she blushed to hear The one lov'd name.

No,--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot Which first love traced; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste. 'Twas odor fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream; 'Twas a light, that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream: Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream.