ew--
The wakened Hours commence their wonted race,
And Nature strikes her living harp anew--
Smiling I scan Creation's glorious face,
And muse, dear Eleanor, dear love, on you.

THE VOW OF LOVE.

'Twas evening's hour of magic power,
The sun went brightly down,
And shadows fell as with a spell,
Along the mountains brown.

On high the sky, with gorgeous dye,
Then glittered bright and wide,
And westward far, the evening star,
Came trembling like a bride.

The birds did chime their drowsy rhyme,
As day was getting o'er,
The rippling wave, did sweetly lave
The winding, pebbly shore.

There walked beside that crystal tide,
Fair Holston's lovely stream,
My lady bright, at soft twilight,
In beauty's matchless gleam.

And I did walk and softly talk
Unto her beauty there,
And deemed that she more fair must be,
Than Goddess, wrought of air.

Her hand in mine--"Oh! be thou mine,
Nor scorn my pleading sigh."
"Yes"--still I cried, "be thou my bride,
My own, until we die!"

Now as that tide doth onward glide
To reach the glittering sea,
With sparkling glow, our souls will flow,
To bright eternity.

DISAPPOINTMENT.

Last eve ere sleep had closed mine eyes,
To me there came a dream,
That when the saffron morn should rise
O'er lovely hill and stream;
I should behold a vision move
By yonder crystal spring--
A vision of an earthly dove,
With pure and blessed wing.

I thought the days of old romance,
Would now return to earth;
And, in that soft and placid trance,
So sweet--yet not like mirth--
I saw the Dryads gently gliding
Through shadowy groves of myrtle--
And Nereides their glances hiding,
And Venus with her turtle.

Alas! our brightest dreams deceive!
The morning rises, bright and sweet,
And every thing in nature waits
Thy fairy face and form to greet;
But they, alas! will wait in vain,
As I, with aching heart,
Whilst wrapt in other joy or pain,
In other scenes, thou art.

Thus ever from our path below,
Some vision lovelier far,
Than Eden's bird, or glittering gem,
Or beam of Beauty's star--
Glides swiftly by--and we are left
To mourn the fleeting bliss,
That mocks us, as we sadly thread,
So dark a scene as this.

THE DREAM OF LOVE.

I dreamed last night, my lady-love,
A dear, delicious dream;
'Twas not in bower or blooming grove,
Nor by the sylvan stream.

'Twas in thy father's noble hall,
I