ver.
But that o'er the blooming land,
Heart to heart and hand in hand,
They should wander on forever.

Thus when come the gentle days
O'er the wildwood's tangled ways,
There is found no gloomy weather;
For among the leafy bowers
And the valleys bright with flowers
Spring and Music walk together!

COMPENSATION.

The softest beams of the stars are born in the farthest skies,
And fairest rays of the sun where evening shadows rise;
The sweetest songs of the bird are sung in the darkest days,
And rarest blooms of the spring are found in the wildest ways.

The brightest blush of the rose is blown as the petals fade.
The greenest grass of the earth is grown in the hidden glade;
The fondest rhyme of the rill is heard in the secret vale,
And lightest lays of the breeze are borne from the dying gale.

The highest hopes of the heart in saddest of sorrows grow,
The purest pleasures of joy arise in the wane of woe;
The gladdest smiles of the lips are seen in the hours of pain,
And proudest days of the free are spent by the broken chain.

The grandest deeds of the race are writ on the faded scroll,
The truest rivers of good from villainous fountains roll;
The perfect raptures of life are reared in the arms of care,
And Hope with her joys dispels the darkness of our despair.

MY MOLLIE, O!

'Twas in the summer's sweet perfume,
When roses bloomed and holly, O,
That in the brightness of her bloom,
I first did meet my Mollie, O.

Although she said for lives to love
Was nothing but pure folly, O,
My heart was lit with light above,
And I true loved my Mollie, O.

O, swift and fast the days did flee
And seemed most bright and jolly, O,
For evermore was near to me
My fair and lovely Mollie, O.

Now I doth sit through all the day
And nurse my melancholy, O,
For from me she has turned away,
O, false and fickle Mollie, O!

SING NOT OF BEAUTY.

Sing not of beauty's grace to me;
Its very name a story tells
Of doubly dark inconstancy,
Love falser than a hundred hells.

Its face is often but a screen
To hide a devil's heart of guile,
Of thoughts and deeds of shameful mien,
By winning looks of heartless wile.

Its laughing smile is but the gleam
That springs from dross of foulest make;
It stirs a sweet but idle dream,
Then leaves the trusting heart to bre