Come back to me, my heart;

Thy precious, boundless treasures are unknown. Thy mate is not; thou hast a bitter part,

To love forever, but to love alone.

Come back, come back to me!

For thou art but a sacrifice to hate. O gracious' Heaven! can it never be? Ah, me, my life is dark and desolate!

With a hard world to cope

All, all alone, and hide the tears I shed. O, there is no death like the death of hope! Why must I live when every hope is dead!

Come, Death, and take me there!

Come, take me where my mother is at rest! Come, Mother! let your child in her despair Find love once more upon your gentle breast.

SONG.

FROM green heather hills o'er the sea, love, Afar from this wild, wizard shore,

The true Highland heart comes to thee, love, To pay its fond tribute once more.

They told me my birdie had flown, love,
Away from dark rumors untrue;
And left her poor laddie alone, love,
Without one last kiss or adieu.

My life and my life's guiding star, love,
My heaven, my hope are in thee.
A demon said thou wert afar, love,
A stranger forever to me.

How sunless and cold was my sky, love, By tempest clouds dismally crossed; How stricken and cheerless was I, love, When all that I cherished was lost.

But skies that were gloomy are clear, love,
And hope's living beams ever shine.

I know by each tale-bearing tear, love,
The heart in your bosom is mine.

MARRIAGE SONG.

WE are a band of lovers true;

The time is drawing nearer

When heart to heart shall pledge anew The dear ones growing dearer.

The day breaks fair, the sun shines bright,
No fear our faith bedimming;
Eyes radiant with love's own light
In tears of joy are swimming.

Ring! ring! The bridal plight is done When two are joined forever;

The golden chain that makes them one Can death alone dissever.

Two hearts in magic union set,

Still close and closer clinging; Upon two souls more clearly yet

The marriage peals are ringing.

And each loved one of all our band,
A sister or a brother,
Whate'er betide, for life will stand
Or fall by every other.

Ring! ring! The bridal plight is done
When two are joined forever;
The golden chain that makes them one
Can death alone dissever.

HEART PICTURES.

I TOOK my way in solitude

From heights and songs of gladness To meditate, alone, and brood

213

On bitter themes in sadness.
The drifting clouds draped heaven's blue
In robes of tinted whiteness;

The rising moon and stars shone through
In all their varied brightness.
A narrow vale, a winding stream

O'er roots and pebbles dancing,
And ever in the changing beam,
Like crystal, darkly glancing.
Lured onward by the rippling swell,
I wandered to the mountain
And found the little, hidden dell,
Where gushed its parent fountain.
There, wrapped in melancholy thought,
I watched its boiling, shining,
Till heart and spirit, overwrought,
Were driven to repining.

M

MARTIN F TUPPER.

Their preciousness in absence is proved by the desire of their presence. -Ibid.

A letter timely writ, is a rivet to the chain of affection;

Mr. Tupper studied law and was admitted to the bar at Lincoln's Inn, but he never practiced the profession. In 1832 he published his first volume of poems, and six years later "Proverbial Philosophy" appeared in print and speedily ran through many editions. That Americans appreciated the author was proven by the fact that up to 1863 half a million copies had been sold in this country. Mr. Tupper is a versatile genius, as is shown in his writings, which include novels, dramas, biographies, hymns, ballads, essays and reminiscences, though he might have remained in comparative obscurity had he never published his "Philosophy," albeit this work has been criticised by some critics as being weak, and has been the subject of much ridicule. However, if the work cannot take a high rank in literature, it certainly contains many pearls of wisdom. C. A. K.

solder.

-Ibid.

EXTRAVAGANCE.

LOVE.

Love with life is heaven; and life, unloving, is hell. -Proverbial Philosophy of Immortality.

God, from a beautiful necessity, is Love.

-Ibid.

Love! what a volume in a word, an ocean in a tear,
A seventh heaven in a glance, a whirlwind in a sigh,
The lightning in a touch, a millennium in a moment.
What concentrated joy or woe in blest or blighted
love.
-Ibid, Love.

God will not love thee less because men love thee more. -Ibid, Tolerance.

LETTERS.

The pen flowing with love, or dipped black in hate, Or tipped with delicate courtesies, or harshly edged

with censure,

Hath quickened more good than the sun, more evil than the sword,

More joy than woman's smile, more woe than frowning fortune;

And shouldst thou ask my judgment of that which hath most profit in the world,

For answer take thou this, the prudent penning of a letter. -Ibid, Writing.

There is a floating island, forward, on the stream of time,

Buoyant with fermenting air, and borne along the rapids;

And on that island is a siren, singing sweetly as she goeth;

Her eyes are bright with invitation, and allurement lurketh in her cheeks;

Many lovers, vainly pursuing, follow her beckoning finger,

Many lovers seek her still, even to the cataract of death.

To-morrow is that island, a vain and foolish heritage,

And, laughing with seductive lips, Delusion hideth there.

Often the precious present is wasted in the visions of the future,

And coy To-morrow cometh not with prophecies fulfilled.

SINGLE POEMS.

MELIK THE BLACK.

WHERE has the princess gone,—

The Princess Parizade?

The dazzling glow of the orient dawn

Floods down through the garden glade.
She is not in the room where the air is sweet
With the scent of the attared rose,
And the tinkle of silver-sandaled feet
Like a brook o'er the marble flows;
She is not in the mosque nor the dim kiosk,
She is not in the almond-close.

Melik the black stands mute

By the harem's outer door;

Does he dream of the sound of the Sennar flute,
And the warm Nile nights of yore?

Does he muse on the happy, bondless days
By the desert fountains cool;

When he rode his barb o'er the trackless ways,
Ere he came to be the tool

Of the loves and hates in the palace gates
Of the treacherous Istamboul?

His thoughts are not afar

In the wide, free Southern land;

He sees, as he saw 'neath the paling star,
A tiny print in the sand.
There hangs the slender ladder yet

Where the daring flight was made;
On the water-stair the ooze and wet

Betray where the boat was stayed; She has fled o'er the main from her gilded chain,— The Princess Parizade.

And shall he bide to face

His master's merciless wrath!
Woe on the soul that waits for grace

In a maddened tyrant's path!
But list!-o'er the court's mosaic floor
Creeps one with a panther tread,
Behind the form at the harem door

With the mournful low-drooped head.
A dagger bright in the morning light!—
And Melik the black lies dead.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.