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THE WIDOW'S WOOER.

He wooes me with those honey'd words

That women love to hear,
Those gentle flatteries that fall

So sweet on every ear.
He tells me that my face is fair,

Too fair for grief to shade:
My cheek, he says, was never meant

In sorrow's gloom to fade.
He stands beside me, when I sing

The songs of other days,
And whispers, in love's thrilling tones,

The words of heartfelt praise ;
And often in my eyes he looks,

Some answering love to see,-
In vain! he there can only read

The faith of memory.
He little knows what thoughts awake

With every gentle word ;
How, by his looks and tones, the founts

Of tenderness are stirr'd.
The visions of my youth return,

Joys far too bright to last;
And while he speaks of future bliss,

I think but of the past.
Like lamps in Eastern sepulchres,

Amid my heart's deep gloom,
Affection sheds its holiest light

Upon my husband's tomb.
And, as those lamps, if brought once more

To upper air, grow dim,
So my soul's love is cold and dead,

Unless it glow for him.

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Man's sterner nature turns away

To seek ambition's goal !
Wealth’s glittering gifts, and pleasure's ray,

May charm his weary soul;
But woman knows one only dream,-

That broken, all is o'er;
For on life's dark and sluggish stream

Hope's sunbeam rests no more.

THE MAIDEN SAT AT HER BUSY WIIEEL.

The maiden sat at her busy wheel,

Her heart was light and free,
And ever in cheerful song broke forth

Her bosom's harmless glee:
Her song was in mockery of Love,

And oft I heard her say,
“ The gather'd rose and the stolen heart

Can charm but for a day.”
I look'd on the maiden's rosy cheek,

And her lip so full and bright,
And I sigh'd to think that the traitor Love

Should conquer a heart so light:
But she thought not of future days of woe,

While she caroli'd in tones so gay, -
“ The gather'd rose and the stolen heart

Can charm but for a day.”
A year pass’d on, and again I stood

By the humble cottage door;
The maiden sat at her busy wheel,

But her look was blithe no more; The big tear stood in her downcast eye,

And with sighs I heard her say, “ The gather'd rose and the stolen heart

Can charm but for a day.”

Oh, well I knew what had dimm’d her eye

And made her cheek so pale :
The maid had forgotten her early song,

While she listen'd to Love's soft tale;
She had tasted the sweets of his poison'd cup,

It had wasted her life away,And the stolen heart, like the gather'd rose,

Had charm'd but for a day.

PARK BENJAMIN.

This gentleman is the author of a great number of unclaimed poems; and some of them, written many years ago, are still “ going the rounds of the press," both in this country and in Great Britain. They have never been collected into a volume, as they richly deserve to be,—for they have not only been very popular, but they have received high praise from “mouths of wisest censure." Mr. Benjamin bas also written largely in prose; and many of his articles have appeared in the “North American Review," the “New York Review," the "American Monthly," and other prominent magazines.

Mr. Benjamin was born in Demerara, South America, in the year 1809. His father was a highly-respected merchant, a native of New England, and mother an English lady, closely allied to a noble family. Their son Park was sent to this country at a very tender age, under the care of an excellent female guardian. From the age of fourteen until his graduation from college, he resided chiefly in Boston and its vicinity. He studied law under the eminent Mr. Justice Story, and also in the school of Chief-Justice Daggett, in Yale College. He commenced the practice in Boston, but was soon lured away by his love of letters, to which he has with great fidelity devoted himself. He has edited several very successful periodicals :—first, the “ New England Magazine," and then, on his removal to New York in 1836, the “ American Monthly;" afterwards, in connection with Horace Greeley, be conducted the “New-Yorker;" then, with Rufus W. Griswold, the “ Brother Jonathan.” But the paper with which Mr. Benjamin was longest connected, and which was for years under his sole charge, was “The New World.” This hebdomadal has never been excelled as a repository of the best literature of the day, and for its fair and able criticisms. Weary of excessive literary toil, notwithstanding its satisfactory results, Mr. Benjamin disposed of his interest in The New World, with the design of spending some years in Europe.

Our limits permit us to say no more than that since that time this writer bas continued his literary pursuits with ardor and success. He has delivered lectures in many of our principal towns and cities, which have been universally liked and have won him "golden opinions." He is still by profession a public speaker, resides in New York City, and is constantly invited to deliver poems and addresses before various literary associations. Of the following selections, the sonnet-A Lije of Lettered Ease—has never before, we believe, appeared in print.

THE DEPARTED.

The departed! the departed!

They visit us in dreams,
And they glide above our memories

Like shadows over streams;
But where the cheerful lights of home
In constant lustre burn,

The departed, the departed

Can never more return!

The good, the brave, the beautiful,

How dreamless is their sleep,
Where rolls the dirge-like music

Of the ever-tossing deep!
Or where the hurrying night-winds

Pale winter's robes have spread
Above their narrow palaces,

In the cities of the dead!

I look around, and feel the awe

Of one who walks alone
Among the wrecks of former days,

In mournful ruin strown;
I start to hear the stirring sounds

Among the cypress-trees,
For the voice of the departed

Is borne upon the breeze.
That solemn voice! it mingles with

Each free and careless strain;
I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy

Will cheer my heart again.
The melody of summer waves,

The thrilling notes of birds,
Can never be so dear to me

As their remember'd words.

I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles

Still on me sweetly fall,
Their tones of love I faintly hear

My name in sadness call.
I know that they are happy,

With their angel-plumage on, But my heart is very desolate

To think that they are gone.

“ HOW CHEERY ARE THE MARINERS!"

How cheery are the mariners,–

Those lovers of the sea !
Their hearts are like its yesty waves,

As bounding and as free.
They whistle when the storm-bird wheels

In circles round the mast;
And sing when deep in foam the ship

Ploughs onward to the blast.
What care the mariners for gales ?

There's music in their roar, When wide the berth along the lee,

And leagues of room before.

Let billows toss to mountain-heights,

Or sink to chasms low,
The vessel stout will ride it out,

Nor reel beneath the blow.
With streamers down and canvass furl'd,

The gallant hull will float
Securely, as on inland lake

A silken-tassellid boat :
And sound asleep some mariners,

And some with watchful eyes,
Will fearless be of dangers dark

That roll along the skies.
God keep those cheery mariners!

And temper all the gales
That sweep against the rocky coast

To their storm-shatter'd sails;
And men on shore will bless the ship

That could so guided be,
Safe in the hollow of His hand,

To brave the mighty sea !

SPORT.

To see a fellow of a summer's morning,

With a large foxhound of a slumberous eye,

And a slim gun, go 'slowly lounging by, About to give the feather'd bipeds warning

That probably they may be shot hereafter,

Excites in me a quiet kind of laughter; For, though I am no lover of the sport

Of harmless murder, yet it is to me

Almost the funniest thing on earth to see A corpulent person, breathing with a snort, Go on a shooting-frolic all alone;

For well I know that, when he's out of town,

He and his dog and gun will all lie down, And undestructive sleep till game and light are flown.

PRESS ON.

Press on! there's no such word as fail!

Press nobly on! the goal is near, -Ascend the mountain ! breast the gale!

Look upward, onward,-never fear! Why shouldst thou faint? Heaven smiles above,

Though storm and vapor intervene; That sun shines on, whose name is Love,

Serenely o'er Life's shadow'd scene. Press on ! surmount the rocky steeps,

Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch; He fails alone who feebly creeps;

He wins, who dares the hero's march.

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