e may ask, with sudden sorrow, why,
The dream of rapture doth so early flee
And souls so meek and good, the prey of fiends should be.

That isle is now as lovely as of yore,
Gay Nature smiles as sweetly, the wild air
Is resonant with music; the green shore
Exhales a constant fragrance, sweet and rare,
But those who made its borders still more fair,
Have slept the sleep of death, long years ago,
Yet is their memory fresh, and ever there
The pilgrim's heart will feel the thought of woe,
His eye will blend a tear with yon fair river's flow.

[Footnote E: Transcriber's note: Spelling is different in the title of
the poem; both have been kept as in the original.]

TO BETTIE.

Give me thy heart, give me thy hand,
Thy love, thy dower, thy goods, thy land;
Give me o'er thee a free command,
Then shall I be a monarch grand.

This brave great world is little worth,
Its largest wealth is but a dearth;
But fond and mutual love can make,
Another richer for its sake.

Give me thy love, thy heart, thy soul,
O'er thee a sovereign control,
Then though huge seas of sorrow roll,
I will defy their wish'd control.

Give me thy destiny, thy all
Which thou dost best and dearest call;
Then let the darts of envy fall,
Let ruffian malice ban and brawl.

I will contemn their power; I will
Still strain with joy's ecstatic thrill,
Thee to this bosom, dearest! till
I rest in heaven from earthly ill.

Give me thy heart, thy unstained hand,
And though I scorn it, give thy land,
Then, by a rainbow sweet and bland,
Shall life's cerulean arch be spann'd.

Beneath that arch of beauty, flowers
Brilliant as bloom in heaven's own bowers,
And bathed in joy's ambrosial showers,
Shall strew the earth through charmed hours.

Beneath that bow, rich melodies,
Like odors that in heaven arise,
Sweet as an angel's breathing sighs,
Shall rise and kiss the smiling skies.

Give me thy heart, hand, bosom, all
Which thou dost nearest, dearest call,
Than let the darts of envy fall,
Let ruffian malice ban and brawl.

Till life's long summer shall depart,
The tender thrill of joy shall start,
We'll laugh at Boreas' icy dart,
Beside the fire which warms the heart.

EPITAPH FOR AN INFANT.

Sweet bud of life, God knew this earth,
Was not a home for thee;
He took thee, even from thy birth,
To bless Eternity.

THE MILLENNIUM.

The promis'd years, the better times,
By God himself foretold,
Have dawn'd, and