Till he becomes a bleeding youth,
And she becomes a virgin bright,
Then he rends up his manacles,

And binds her down for his delight.

He plants himself in all her nerves,
Just as a husbandman his mould,
And she becomes his dwelling-place,
And garden fruitful seventy-fold:

An aged shadow, soon he fades,
Wandering round an earthly cot,
Full-filled all with gains and gold,
Which he by industry had got;

And these are the gems of the human soul,
The rubies and pearls of a love-sick eye,
The countless gold of the aching heart,
The martyr's groan, and the lover's sigh.

They are his meat, they are his drink;
He feeds the beggar and the poor,
And the wayfaring traveller,

For ever open is his door.

His grief is their eternal joy;

They make the roofs and walls to ring—

Till from the fire on the hearth

A little female babe does spring ;

And she is all of solid fire

And gems and gold, that none his hand Dares stretch to touch her baby form,

Or wrap her in his swaddling band.

But she comes to the man she loves,
If young or old, or rich or poor,
They soon drive out the aged host,
A beggar at another's door.

He wanders, weeping, far away,
Until some other take him in ;
Oft blind and age-bent, sore distress'd,
Until he can a maiden win:

And to allay his freezing age,

The poor man takes her in his arms;

The cottage fades before his sight,
The garden and its lovely charms;

The guests are scatter'd through the land,
For the eye altering alters all ;
The senses roll themselves in fear,
And the flat earth becomes a ball;

The stars, sun, moon, all shrink away,
A desert vast without a bound,
And nothing left to eat or drink,
And a dark desert all around :

The honey of her infant lips,

The bread and wine of her sweet smile, The wild game of her roving eye, Does him to infancy beguile;

For as he eats and drinks, he grows
Younger and younger every day;
And on the desert wild they both
Wander in terror and dismay.

Like the wild stag she flees away,

Her fear plants many a thicket wild; While he pursues her night and day, By various arts of love beguiled;

By various arts of love and hate;
Till (the wide desert planted o'er
With labyrinths of wayward love,

Where roam the lion, wolf, and boar,)

Till he becomes a wayward babe,
And she a weeping woman old.
Then many a lover wanders here;
The sun and stars are nearer roll'd;

The trees bring forth sweet ecstasy
To all who in the desert roam;

Till many a city there is built,

And many a pleasant shepherd's home.

But when they find the frowning babe,
Terror strikes through the region wide,-
They cry,
The babe, the babe is born! "

66

And flee away on every side.

For who dare touch the frowning form,
His arm is wither'd to its root;
Lions, bears, wolves, all howling flee,
And every tree does shed its fruit.

And none can touch that frowning form,
Except it be a woman old;

She nails him down upon the rock,
And all is done as I have told.

A

THE LAND OF DREAMS.

WAKE, awake, my little boy!

Thou wast thy mother's only joy. Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep? Awake, thy father does thee keep.

"O, what land is the land of dreams, What are its mountains, and what are its

streams?

O father, I saw my mother there,

Among the lilies by waters fair.

"Among the lambs clothed in white,

She walk'd with her Thomas in sweet delight;

I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn,

O, when shall I again return?"

Dear child, I also by pleasant streams,

Have wander'd all night in the land of dreams,
But though calm and warm the waters wide,
I could not get to the other side.

"Father, O father! what do we here,

In this land of unbelief and fear?

The land of dreams is better far

Above the light of the morning-star."

S

MARY.

WEET Mary, the first time she ever was there, Came into the ball-room among the fair, The young men and maidens around her throng, And these are the words upon every tongue :—

"An Angel is here from the heavenly climes,
Or again does return the golden times;
Her eyes outshine every brilliant ray;
She opens her lips-'tis the month of May.