cene to-night, the dreadest e'er we saw,
The hardest heart that beateth now, in watery fear will thaw.
But lo! 'twas but a moment, like a wayward Beauty's wrath,
And the moon resumes in heaven, see! her all serener path--
And the clouds receding slowly rest upon the horizon round,
And the katydids and waters make the only living sound.
'Tis yet a night of loveliness, and fondly we may deem,
That Heaven and Earth are resting in the beauty of a Dream.

THE LIFE-LAND.

Oh yes, there's a land, far away, out of sight,
Where the fairest of flowers forever bloom bright--
Where the groves never wither--the buds never die--
And bright rivers of crystal forever roll by.
'Tis the clime of the Christian--the home of the blest--
Where the wretched are happy--the weary at rest.
'Neath its bowers in bloom, by its waters so still,
The righteous shall walk, free from anguish and ill;--
And they never shall pass from its portals again,
For their pleasures forever and aye shall remain.

TO MISS ----.

The flowers you gave, dear girl, will fade,
Nor shun the common lot, to die;
The thoughts they spoke, still undecayed,
Shall bloom immortal as the sky.

Beneath the sun's meridian ray,
They'll fade and leave no trace behind:
The love they woke shall ne'er decay,
But be immortal like the Mind.

THE WIFE TO THE ABSENT HUSBAND.

Come back to me, my absent friend!
Since thou wast far away,
The vernal flowers have lost some charms,
Less bright the vernal day.
The wild, sweet voices of the fields;
Of birds amid the sky;
Of streams that wander through the wood,
With dreamy melody;
Sound not so sweet--and shine less bright,
Unto my pensive soul,
Since thou wentest forth, O dearest friend,
To brook the world's control.

Come back to me! come back to me!
Let not the dream of fame,
Too long allure thy lingering feet
To worship at a name.

Yet, I would have thee nobly strive
To win that glorious meed,
But still, of Woman's saving love,
Hast thou not urgent need?

Come back to me! come back to me!
Thou never yet hast known,
How lone and desolate I feel
When left, by thee, alone.

The dove without her loving mate,
Repeats a song like mine--
Thus seems, o'er sad, neglected love,
To murmur and repine.

Come back to me--oh! quickly come!
The joy that I shall know
Will more than pay for all this depth
Of dark and bitter woe,

Which thou hast doomed my heart to