FOR MARY.

Oh! may the brightest smiles of heaven
  That beam on men below,
Still shine upon sweet Mary’s path,
  Wherever she may go.

May Angels, like herself! still guard
  Her steps from every ill,
Until she walks in robes of white,
  O’er God’s high, happy hill.

And, when, in that celestial clime,
  She beams a spirit bright—­
How sweet to think she’ll love me then
  Where nought our love can blight.

LINES.

Oft have I heard thine accents steal,
  Like music on the air,
Then quickly turned to see thy form,
  Sweet Mary! standing there.

But thou did’st ever glide away,
  Nor heed my pleading prayer—­
But now, alas! thou’rt but a Thought,
  A phantom like the air.

THE FLOWERS.

The flowers! the flowers!  I love ye, flowers;
  Ye have a mystic voice
To speak unto my inmost soul
  And make my heart rejoice.

Your charms illume the splendid halls
  Where wealthy princes move,
And light the humble peasant’s cot,
  Like gleams of heavenly love.

Oh flowers, bright flowers!  I feel within
  My inmost heart, your power;
And know I see the light of Heaven,
  Within a blooming flower.

Had I a lovely home amid
  Some valley green and fair—­
The flowers—­sweet flowers—­should ever gleam,
  In star-like beauty there.

THE ENCHANTED REALM OF JOY.

Oh!  I am sick of the ennui that comes of the earth,
All tasteless its landscapes—­and charmless its mirth. 
Away, swift away, on a pinion, as sprite,
I will speed to a kingdom not day and not night: 
Where a spell of enchantment as soft as a dream,
Moves over the mountain, the valley, and stream;
And the bird and the rill with a sleep-bringing rhyme,
Soothe the gliding away of the current of time. 
Away, swift away to this dream-world of bliss—­
From a place all so tiresome and tasteless as this. 
And would I might ever abandon its beams
That radiate but feebly, to dwell by the streams
That gleam from the mountains of green fairyland,
And, at last, in bright morn of Heaven expand.

TO MISS M.T.R.

Whate’er may be my unknown fate
  Upon this dark, terrestrial sphere,
Wilt smile to hear that I am blest,
  And o’er my anguish shed thy tear?

Methinks it were a happy lot,
  That thou would’st grieve or smile with me;
And though all others prove most false,
  I ne’er should find untruth in thee.

Yes! thou wouldst seem some heavenly one
  If such thy friendship followed me,
Nor would I cease, through every change,
  To crave of Heaven its love for thee.