seem to dwell in paradise,
With thee my Eve, and we may need no fall.
See, fairy spring hath walked upon the hills,
Where her foot-prints are green and flowers appear;
The turtle coos within our pleasant land.
Oh! now I throb to be by thy sweet side,
To sun me in the sweet spring of that smile
Which warms the beauties of my mind to birth.
Thus, Mary, when afar from thee, amid
The unloving and unloved I muse of thee,
And sing and love thee still, and cannot wish
The thought of thee a moment from my soul.
Thou art the friend whom I would ever have
Dwell by my soul in absence and when nigh.
Thou art the friend whom I would have be still,
The loved and guardian angel of my path,
Amid the mazes of a treacherous world.
Thou art the friend, with whom in smiling peace
I fain would walk, to the not dreadful tomb.
And now, adieu, sweet Mary! I must cease
My strain; but, as a wind-strain sleeps
Upon a bed of roses; so the echo
Of this my strain, will find its rest with thee.

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

As stainless thought my hand should write,
Upon this page of spotless white;
Nor would I that thy falling tear
Should blot the wish recorded here.

Oh, like the rose which opens here,
The earliest of the vernal year,
May Mary's bloom enchant the day,
And bless the Minstrel's votive lay.

But when the envious, Boreal wind,
Shall leave his Northern cave behind,
And seek to sieze thy beauteous bloom
To deck his dark and dreary tomb:

May some kind angel swiftly fly,
And leave the region of the sky,
Transplant thee to a clime where ne'er
Sad winter mars the blooming year.

THE DEAD EAGLE.

No more through the regions of glorious day,
Shall thy wings waft thee proudly--oh proudly away--
No more shall thy scream thrill the spirit that heard,
And saw thee, high mounting, O proud, mighty bird:
For thy form lies with beasts on the filth of the plain,
And it never shall soar from its slumber again.

How strong was thy wing, and how fierce was thine eye--
Which vanquished the storm--and the sun throned on high--
How far was thy flight mid thy path through the blue,
As thou sankest away from our wandering view;--
But thy form rottens now with the beasts of the plain,
And it never shall soar from its slumber again.

We will mourn, we will mourn for thee, proud bird of heaven,
Whose loftiest walks to thy footsteps were given;
For thy form rots with beasts on the reed-sighing plain,
And it never shall soar f