THE BROKEN-HEARTED.

BY MISS M. A. DODD.

I WOULD not stay forever here,
In this sad world of care and pain;
I would not have life linger on,
Or give my thoughts to earth again.
I long to close my tearful eyes,
Recline my weary, aching head
Upon the couch where all is peace,
And rest among the early dead.

I do not fear to look on death,

From whose approach no power can save; No serpent's sting is in his grasp,

Nor disappointment in the grave.

How sweet to sleep on some green bank,

Where summer breezes gently blow;

The pure and glad blue sky above,
The silver-singing wave below!

I would not have mine humble name
In costly marble sculptured deep:
No darkening yew should spread its gloom,
Nor o'er my head the willow weep:

But insect hum, and voice of bird

Should float upon the sunny air:

The happy will not turn away

While cheerful sights and sounds are there.

And if some gentle step should come With blossoms in the morning hours, O, welcome would the offering be,j

For I have dearly loved the flowers! Perchance my spirit, freed from pain,

Might linger round the verdant tomb, To bless the loving hand that gave,

And borrow pleasure from their bloom.

To-morrow, and the setting sun

Its shadows round my grave will cast; I shall not watch the fading light,

On tree and flower, and look my last Upon those orbs of purest gold,

So thickly strown in yonder sky, And the fair goddess of the night, Walking in loveliness on high.

Long have those bright, mysterious stars
Their silent watch o'er sorrow kept;
The pale, soft moon looked calmly down,
As if she saw no eyes that wept:
There tracing still her radiant path,
Far out upon the spotless blue,

Why may not love thus steady burn?

Why cannot friends be always true?

Still will they shine, when I am gone,
As they have ever shone before;
And weary eyes will meet their beams,
When I shall wake to weep no more.
O, beautiful upon the grave,

The starlight and the moonbeams lie! With such sweet watchers o'er our sleep, Why should we ever fear to die?

A weight is on my closing lids,

The dews are gathering round my brow, And, with the shade of vanished years,

Fond memory holds communion now; Inwove with many a darkening thread The texture of my life appears: How vain were all its sweetest hopes, How more than bitter were its tears!

I strive to imitate his love,

Who every cruel wrong forgave; And o'er my tried and suffering soul Peace, like a river, rolls its wave. O! surely, in that better land,

No vulture shall the dove molest, Or worm devour the rose's heart: Take me, my Father, to its rest!

FORTUNE.

BY L. C. BROWNE.

I PASSED a rich and splendid dwelling,
Upon a festive night;

The notes of music soft were swelling,
The dance was gay and light.

The wine went round; from goblets flowing, It sparkled fair and red;

The eyes of beauty bright were glowing,

And care and sorrow fled.

Where locust shades bent o'er the door,

The silver knocker swung;
The softest carpets spread the floor,
The walls were richly hung.

And then I sighed for hoarded treasure,

For luxury and dress,

For groves of shade, and halls of pleasure,

And revels of excess.

Across the way, all unassuming,

A simple cottage rose;

With native elm around them blooming,

Its inmates did repose.

The moon arose with light and gladness,

The birds in rapture sung;

But still a cloud of dusky sadness
Around the palace hung.

The brow of beauty, like the willow,
In low dejection bent;

The nabob slumbered on his pillow,
All sad and indolent.

But from the lowly cottage, smiling,
Did playful children run,

With artless song the hour beguiling,
Danced in the morning sun.

Forth came the aged, hoary sire,
His morning walk to take;
The cheerful wife, before the fire,
Set down her corn-meal cake.

The husband, o'er his basket bending,
Was gathering up his corn;

A blooming girl, the steps descending,
Blew loud the breakfast horn.

The wish of all the group expressing,
With looks that thoughts reveal,
The sire invoked a heavenly blessing
Upon his humble meal.

And then I chid my vain admiring
Of wealth and tinsel toys,
For which deluded man, aspiring,
O'erlooks substantial joys.