Full often they embrace,
Yet tenderly they linger;
And see! the bride a ring doth place
Upon the bridegroom's finger:
"Thus I to thee will ever cling:
Thus thou to me shalt be my king."

A bride and bridegroom of seven years
Sit in the pale moonlight:
But on that paler brow appears
Death's monitory light.
Thus, sitting side by side,

They talk the hours away.

The bridegroom saith unto the bride,
"Behold, the coming day

My summons hence shall surely bring:
Take, as my last farewell, this ring."

The bride and bridegroom are alone,
She kneeleth by his bed:
With ne'er a tear, and ne'er a groan,
She whispereth, "He is dead!"
A last, long kiss she steals,

Then slowly glides away :

And now the farewell ring reveals

What he no more may say

For on its inner side is graven,

"We loved on earth: we'll meet in heaven."

A SONG OF FAREWELL.

Aн, well! They say we two must part.
So let it be. I feel no fear.

They think to tear thee from my heart:
In vain; thy dearest home is there.

They sooner shall remove yon hill,

Than steal that treasure from its nest. Absence is nought to Love; for still, Though far apart, it nestles in the breast. So, then, I must a while depart; A while must live my life alone, Yet not alone, for each fond heart Claimeth the other for its own. Wherever beauty is, there seems Thy radiant loveliness to rise: My daily thoughts, my nightly dreams, Teem with thy love-lit memories. What mattereth, then, this word, farewell, Sweet love, to souls like thine and mine? What care we for its saddest knell,

Whilst thou art mine, and I am thine? No, no! Not e'en a falling tear

Of one brief pang of grief shall tell: Life is so short: Heaven is so near: And angels never say farewell.

STANZAS.

NAY! Try not to conceal
Love's presence in thy breast:

Each moment will reveal

Its dwelling to the rest.

Speak and each guarded word
Its name will sound;

Be silent-still 'tis heard

Breathing around.

Weep-and each tear-drop turns

Into a tongue;

Smile on thy cheek it burns

As clear-as strong.

Love was not born to live

Ever alone:

Nor can it thus contrive
To be unknown.
Its song it still will sing,
Whate'er thy rage;
It still will try its wing
Against its cage.

Then try not to conceal

Love's presence in thy breast;

If thou its home reveal,

"Twill learn to love its nest.

"Twill peacefully abide,
"Twill patient wait;
Till sitting by its side

There sits its mate.

ASLEEP.

"A SNOW-WHITE shroud and a winding-sheet, And a home in a coffined cell;

I shall soon have fallen asleep, my sweet,
And the dead- they slumber well.
Stay, Lucy, he promised to meet me here,
When the church clock striketh three;
I leave him a kiss; so, promise me, dear,
You'll tell him it came from me.

Ah, well! See, dreamily falls the rain,
And 'wilderingly howls the wind;
But for me it may wander and wail in vain,
I am leaving these behind.

Nay, nay, little Lucy, you must not weep,
You will smile again, by-and-by:
I am fading away, I am falling asleep,
Good-bye! and bid him good-bye!"

W. D. GLYDE.

WE have been favoured with a pretty collection of Poems, entitled "Songs of the Months," by the above-named writer, who (after a perusal of the following extracts), our readers will not be surprised to hear, resides in a delightfully picturesque nook of sunny Somersetshire. Although Mr. Glyde's effusions sometimes lack finish, and occasionally betray symptoms of haste in composition, many of the verses are full of poetry of the truest nature. Had we space, we

should not have been satisfied with the extracts we have made, for others remain equally beautiful, though too diffuse for this publication. We hope, however, in future volumes to renew our acquaintance with Mr. Glyde, and to be favoured with more of his refreshing lyrics.

FEBRUARY.

ALL sunshine lurks with shadows,
With sorrow haunteth joy;
E'en in the upland meadows

The tattered shepherd's boy
Knows that the sheltering hedges
Have all their windy sides,
Beneath whose "mocks" and ledges
Nor he nor wild thing hides;
And midnight mouths do season
With melody their moans;
So Nature's diapason

Thrills with commingled tones.

So weary! ah, so weary!

What cloudy month comes here,
So weirdish, dwarfish, dreary,
In this grey youth of the year?
No leaf on bough is swinging,
No murmur fills the wood
Of the wafture of the winging
Of wild bird to her brood.
No insect vans are humming,
Upon the murky air,
No clacking of the coming
Of culver's wing is there—
No cooing in the branches,
No creeping in the grass,
The rabbit on his haunches
Sits idly as we pass.

Delve through the winter-sodden
Turf of this woodland floor;
Great truth lies undertrodden,

Truth that will bless us more