My mem'ry brightens, and reflects in stronger colour still,
The hypocrite, who, by degrees, made subject to his will
The passion he had kindled, 'mid long years of ardent guile.
My spirit saddens, and there's nought my sadness to beguile,
For thoughts rush up from memory to torture every vein
That passes thro' the fabric of my God-wrought active brain.
Our dear fond parents from the first encourag'd his approach,
Nor deem'd the time would ever come to cause them to
reproach;

They nestled in their aged hearts hopes destin'd soon to die, They saw their daugter's visions bright, like wind-blown feathers fly;

Oh! cruel faithless man! how many suff'ring hearts have bled,

Since thy foul sensual passion on virtue has been fed,

To gain thy treacherous purpose, and stamp upon thy name The villain's mark-which steels thy breast against all fear of shame?

My sister dear! I know thy heart, tho' shorn of love's first bloom,

Forgives, in secret, him, who filled our childhood's home with gloom.

Thy child! the image of the base deceiver of thy heart,
Still lives-another victim of his father's venom art;

Eight winters, with their piercing frost and falling flakes of snow,

Have gone their way, since Johnny first beheld this world of

woe,

And should he live to manhood, to perform upon the stage
A part in life's dramatic play, which changes with the age,
Thy sister's heartfelt, earnest hope, which lingers in her mind,
Is, that to his mother dear he may never prove unkind.

THE UNIVERSALITY OF LOVE.

Love! 'tis a theme for Poet's lore

'Tis writ in ancient

page,

Dawning Youth, fading Age,

Its images adore

Its symphonies delight the heart,
Whate'er the bow that sends the dart.

Some love the swelling hurricane-
The lightning's flashing speed-
While others, fancy feed

With objects on the main-
Numbers intent on worlds above
Secure for them untiring Love.

Some love the sunshine's golden form

Illumining the field,

And other nature's yield

A pleasure for the storm.

Many love, in summer bowers,

To cull the sweet exotic flowers.

Some love the moist'ning dew of morn

The placid rippling rill—

Evening calm and still

To walk when day is gone.

There be, who love the burning clime,

The blazing mount which mocks e'en Time.

Some love to view the hoary oak,

The pines, that soar up high

Toward the boundless sky,

Sublimity invoke.

There's left some love for simpler things,

Which ride upon the season's wings.

Sweet flowers and herbs, odours rare,

Disport in welcome ease,

Robbing the foe Disease,

By perfuming the air.

Their odours, sense of smell delight,

Their beauty captivates the sight.

There are who love the grassy sod,
Like friendship ever near,

The soul's sad tones to cheer,
And send its thoughts to God;
And every scene which meets the gaze
Doth wond'rously the mind amaze.

The maiden gentle as the dove,
When locked in man's embrace,
With tenderness and grace,

Reciprocates his love.

The love a mother tends her boy,

In after life is felt with joy.

Beauteous love! where art thou not?

We see thee in the star,

In foreign climes afar,

In ev'ry poor man's cot;

In earth, in sea, in balmy air-
Thy presence, Love, is ev'rywhere!

MUSIC.

There's music in the awful thunder's tone,
'Tho man may not its melody approve,

In the rough wind's solemn and weary moan,
Howling hoarsly 'mid the hurricane's wild rage,
When elemental war darks the universal page
Where silence reigns-Music maintains supreme her seat,
Nor Nature's changes, no, nor all we call sublime,

Can e'er displace her from her ethereal beat,

Or throw her from the wheel revolving grey-hair'd time!

There's music in the billows of the main,
Gurgling and foaming with a savage joy ;
There's music in the vestal drops of rain,

Beating the million leaves that deck the time-worn tree;

Tho' distance, from our ears, those sounds may oft-times free

Freshening, with glistening gems, the heated days,

Moistening the parched flowers and vernal grass,

Expos'd from shade, beneath the sun's effulgent rays,
The dalliance of whose form e'en love cannot surpass.

There's music in the softly-gliding lake,

When smoothly playing with its curdling surge;
There's music in the rustling of the brake,
As murm'ring zephyrs sportive shake its tiny stems;
There's music to the heart, more dear than diadems
Of beauty's cast or riches' hue, found in the songs,
Thrilling morning's early and serenest hour,
From winged choristers where Love belongs,
While on our ear deliciously their voices pour.

There's music in the morning's balmy breeze,
When buzzing flies sport 'mid the summer air;
There's music in the humming of the bees-
'Mid the scented flowers absorbing honey sweet-
The golden butterflie's ambrosial retreat;

There's music, sweet music, descending from on high,
Which vibrates e'en the waveless atmosphere of thought,
Girt with the lark's blithe strains, towards the azure sky
Wending its flight-with mystic wonder finely wrought.

There's music in the fervid grateful prayer,
Ascending to the ether orbs above;

There's music in the tones that thrill the air,
Praising goodness-aspirations from the soul's deep lore,
Striving continuous, with quick'ning pulse, to store
The truths in Nature-piled in one stupendous mass-
Gathered from Heavenly worlds and earthly sod,
Those gems of truth reflected in proud Nature's glass,
May herald Man more knowledge of his maker-God.

Blest music! at thy sound what visions dart!
Imagination thy spells can ne'er pourtray,
When tender reminiscences upstart

Of childhood's gaiety-the mother's soothing lullaby,
The youthful maiden's voice-her lover's parting sigh.
The minstrelsy transmitted thro' the trembling line
Of life-tho' but the emanation of the day
Tis' heard-is sent o'er Nature by a hand Divine,
And will remain when hoary Time hath pass'd away.

MIDNIGHT.

Come solemn Midnight, silent reign,
Over Creation's vast domain,

And send thy ebon shadows forth,

From east to west, from south to north.

The moon shines brightly, sweet, and clear,
With stars that gem the heav'nly sphere;
The clouds, like curtain mantles seem,
To fold the world in tranquil dream-
A dream, pophetic, calm, and deep.
Forests and rocks, and mountains sleep!
Anon the clouds pale Cynthia hide,
The winds o'er mountain summits ride;
And darkness weaves a sable pall,
To robe the trees and rivers all,
Until the clouds have mov'd away,
And the bright moon, with mystic sway,
Pours forth soft rays of light, to shine
O'er earth, with luscious joy divine.
The glowworm lends its tiny light,
To pierce the dimness of the night,
And the nightingale trills a song,

With mournful cadence deep and strong-
'Tis borne on the passing breeze
To far-off glens, and silent leas;
From out the solemn Midnight's womb,

To find those lonesome spots a tomb!

The moon and stars begin to wane, Whilst morn speeds o'er the surging main; As Sol advances in the rear,

Darkness and shadow disappear,

Till earth is full of Day's rich light,

And nought remains to trace midnight.

!