THE BELEAGUERED HEART.

I AM looking down into my heart—
Into its deep-deep stream,
Where, choking up its current, lie
The ashes of love's dream.

Along the brightly blooming banks
With a solemn step and slow,
And visage drear-and gleaming spear,
Stride the sentinels of woe.

While from the troubled waters flow

Into my mental ear,

Like those sounds, that oft when half asleep

And half awake, we hear—

The softest-saddest music that

O'er mortal ear e'er stole

Up from the hearth-stone of the heart,

Or the altars of the soul.

Voices whose tones have long been hushed
Mid the rushing waves of life-
All false, and fadeless vows of love-
All jarring notes of strife.--

I hear the mournful moans of joy-
Hope, sobbing while she cheers-
Like dew, descending from the leaf,
The dropping of Love's tears.

The heavy sighings of Despair,
As she folds her dusky wings-
The wild, impetuous gushings of
A thousand secret springs.

I am looking down into my heart—
Into its deep-deep stream,
Where, choking up its current, lie

The ashes of love's dream.

TO ONE AFAR.

THIS lovely morn-this lovely morn,

Ah! whither are thy footsteps straying; Beneath what bowers of blooming thorn,

Art thou, in pensive mood, delaying?

This lovely morn-this lovely morn,

Ah! whither do thy bright thoughts wander—

What absent loved-one dost thou mourn ?

On what blessed image dost thou ponder?

This lovely morn, when all is fair,

And beautiful as Eden's bowers,

Why have I not thy tender care

Thy smiles to cheer the weary hours?

Why have I not thy kisses warm?

Why am I not beside thee walking,

And leaning on thy doting arm,

While all the woods of love are talking?

But here, alone, I sit and kiss

Thine image with the tears upstarting, And watch afar my dream of bliss,

Like the mirage of the waste departing.

TO A WHIP-POOR-WILL,

SINGING IN A GRAVEYARD

WHY, melancholy singer,

Dost thou hover here at eve,

Like one who loves to linger

Around the dead and grieve?

Why, in the night-time only

Do we hear thy pensive lay?

Why art thou ever lonely?

Why shunn'st the garish day?

Art thou minstrel lorn from heaven,
Who comest to our earth,

At the silent hour of even,

To mock the voice of mirth;

And to soothe the sad and weary

Who steal away to weep,

In the churchyard lone and dreary,

Or by the mountain steep?