WOMAN'S LOVE-ITS JOY, ITS PAIN.
To worship silently at some heart's shrine,
And feel, but paint not, all its fire in thine;
To pray for that heart's hopes when thine are
gone,

Nor let its after coldness chill thine own;
To hold that one, with every fault, more dear
Than all who whisper fondness in thine car;
To joy thee in his joy, and silently
Meet the upbraiding of his angry eye;
To bear unshrinking all the blows of fate,
Save that which leaves thy sorrow desolate ;
Nor deem that woe which thou canst feel is
still

Borne with him, and for him through every ill;

To smile on him, nor weep, save when, apart,
God, and God only, looks into thy heart;
To keep unchanged thy calm, pure, quiet
love,

If he inconstant doth a new one prove,
With the affection of true heart to see
His happiness, which doth not hang on
thee;-

Oh! this is woman's love-its joy-its pain;
And this-it hath been felt-and felt in vain!
Hon. Mrs. Norton.

"Yet once more would I blow, and the music divine

Would bring me, the third time, an exquisite bliss

You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine,

And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss."

ALL NATURE SPEAKS OF LOVE.

The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things, by a law divine,
In one another's being mingle-
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it e'er disdain'd its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;-
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

BLINDNESS OF LOVE.

Shelley.

Should steal upon the heart, like summer dawn
On the awak'ning world, soft, gradual;
First hail'd and welcomed by the mountain-
peaks,

The loftiest aspirations of the soul;

Then, slowly spreading downward o'er the slopes

Of intellectual intercourse, to flood

At length the very plains and vales of sense
With beauties of its sunshine; one by one
Kissing awake all spirit-buds and flowers,
To pour their fragrance forth in gratitude.
I had forgot that perfect love like this
Could be the portion but of perfect souls!
I had forgot to estimate how far

My own heart fell below the standard raised
By my presumption, when I deem'd its pulse

Duke. There is no woman's sides
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart: no woman's
heart

So big, to hold so much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite-
No motion of the liver, but the palate,-
That suffers surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much: make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me
And that I owe Olivia.

Violante. Ay, but I know

Duke. What dost thou know?

Violante. Too well what love women to

men may owe;

In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.

Duke. And what's her history?

Violante. A blank, my lord: she never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought;

And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat, like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Shakespeare.

LOVE'S PERFECTION.

Love is the rose of flowers, the diamond of gems, the honey of sweets, the sun of light, the melody of sound, the bliss of feeling, and the life of life. Anon.

MUTE COMMUNION WONDROUS SWEET.

There is a language by the virgin made,
Not read, but felt; not utter'd, but betray'd;
A mute communion, yet so wondrous sweet,
Eyes must impart what tongue can ne'er
repeat.

'Tis written on her cheeks and meaning brows;

In one short glance whole volumes it avows;

A WRINKLED HEART REDEEMED BY LOVE.

Not far from Margaret's cottage dwelt a knight

Of the proud Templars, a sworn celibate, Whose heart in secret fed upon the light

And dew of her ripe beauty, thro' the grate Of his close vow catching what gleams he might

Of the free heaven, and cursing, all too late,

The cruel faith whose black walls hemm'd him in

And turn'd life's crowning bliss to deadly sin.

For he had met her in the wood by chance, And having drunk her beauty's wondering spell,

His heart shook like the pennon of a lance That quivers in a breeze's sudden swell, And thenceforth, in a close-enfolded trance,

From misty golden deep to deep he fell; Till earth did waver and fade far away Beneath the hope in whose warm arms he lay.

A dark proud man he was, whose half-blown youth

Had shed its blossoms even in opening, Leaving a few that with more winning ruth Trembling around grave manhood's stem

might cling,

More sad than cheery, making, in good sooth, Like the fringèd gentian, a late autumn spring:

A twilight nature, braided light and gloom, A youth half-smiling by an open tomb.