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Why curls the blue smoke o'er the trees?
What words are borne upon the breeze?
Some cottage in yon lonely glen
Lies nestled from the eyes of men ;
Unconsciously we've wandered near
Some rural play-place, for I hear
The sound in which my heart rejoices,-
The melody of infant voices.

Alas ! in that green nook we see
No dwelling-place of industry;
No dame, intent on household cares,
The neat but frugal meal prepares :

No sire, his labour o'er, will come
To brighten and to share her home;
No children from their mother learn
An honest way their bread to earn.


The gipsies, wild and wandering race,
Are masters of the sylvan chase
Beneath the boughs their tents they raise,
Upon the turf their faggots blaze:
In coarse profusion they prepare
The feast obtained, -how, when, and where?
While swarthy forms, with clamour loud,
Around the smoking cauldron crowd.

Forth trips a laughing dark-eyed lass,
To intercept us as we pass ;
Upon your right hand let her look,
And there she'll read, as in a book,
Your future fortune; and reveal
The joy or woe you're doom'd to feel :
Your course of love she will unfold,
If you the picture dare behold!


The matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow,
Sits gazing on her lovely face,-aye, lovely even now;
Why doth she lean upon her hand with such a look of care ?
Why steals that tear across her cheek? she sees her first grey

Time from her form hath ta'en away but little of its grace;
His touch of thought hath dignified the beauty of her face ;
Yet she might mingle in the dance, where maidens gaily trip,
So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautiful her lip.
The faded form is often marked by sorrow more than years, –
The wrinkle on the cheek may be the course of secret tears ;
The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er confest,
And the dimness of the eye betray a heart that cannot rest.
But she hath been a happy wife : the lover of her youth
May proudly claim the smile that pays the trial of his truth;
A sense of slight of loneliness,-hath never banished sleep:
Her life hath been a cloudless one ; then wherefore doth she weep?


She looked upon her raven locks, what thoughts did they recal ? Oh! not of nights when they were decked for banquet or for ball; They brought back thoughts of early youth, e'er she had learnt to

check, With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported o'er her neck. She seemed to feel her mother's hand pass lightly through her hair, And draw it from her brow, to leave a kiss of kindness there; She seemed to view her father's smile, and feel the playful touch That sometimes feigned to steal away the curls she prized so much. And now she sees her first grey hair! oh, deem it not a crime For her to weep, when she beholds the first footmark of Time! She knows that, one by one, those mute mementos will increase, And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life itself shall cease. 'Tis not the tear of vanity for beauty on the wane; Yet, though the blossom may not sigh to bud and bloom again, It cannot but remember, with a feeling of regret, The spring for ever gone,-the summer sun so nearly set. Ah, lady! heed the monitor! thy mirror tells thee truth; Assume the matron's folded veil, resign the wreath of youth : Go! bind it on thy daughter's brow, in her thou'lt still look fair"Twere well would all learn wisdom who behold the first grey hair!



I NEVER was a favourite,

My mother never smiled
On me, with half the tenderness

That blessed her fairer child :
I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek,

While fondled on her knee;
I've turned away, to hide my tears,—
There was no kiss for me!

I strove to please with all
My little store of sense ;
I strove to please,-and infancy

Can rarely give offence:
But when my artless efforts met

A cold, ungentle check,
I did not dare to throw myself

In tears upon her

And yet

How blessed are the beautiful!

Love watches o'er their birth ; Oh, beauty! in my nursery

I learned to know thy worth : For even there I often felt

Forsaken and forlorn ; And wished—for others wished it too

I never had been born!

I'm sure I was affectionate ;

But in my sister's face
There was a look of love, that claimed

A smile or an embrace :
But when I raised my lip to meet

The pressure children prize,
None knew the feelings of my heart, —

They spoke not in my eyes.

But, oh! that heart too keenly felt

The anguish of neglect; I saw my sister's lovely form With

gems and roses decked : I did not covet them; but oft,

When wantonly reproved, I envied her the privilege

Of being so beloved.

But soon a time of triumph came,

A time of sorrow too;
For sickness o'er my sister's form

Her venomed mantle threw :
The features, once so beautiful,

Now wore the hue of death; And former friends shrank fearfully

From her infectious breath.

'Twas then, unwearied, day and night,

I watched beside her bed ; And fearlessly upon my breast

I pillowed her poor head. She lived and loved me for my care,

My grief was at an end ; I was a lonely being once,

But now I have a friend.


They say we are too young to love, —

Too wild to be united;
In scorn they bid us both renounce

The fond vows we have plighted.
They send thee forth to see the world,

Thy love by absence trying :
Then go; for I can smile farewell, -

Upon thy truth relying.
I know that Pleasure's hand will throw

Her silken nets about thee ;
I know how lonesome I shall find

The long, long days without thee.
But in thy letters there'll be joy ;

The reading,—the replying :
I'll kiss each word that's traced by thee,-

Upon thy truth relying.
When friends applaud thee, I'll sit by,

In silent rapture gazing ;
And, oh! how proud of being loved

By her they have been praising!
But should Detraction breathe thy name,

The world's reproof defying :
I'd love thee,-laud thee,-trust thee still,-

Upon thy truth relying.
E'en those who smile to see us part,

Shall see us meet with wonder;
Such trials only make the heart

That truly loves grow fonder.
Our sorrows past shall be our pride,

When with each other vying :
Thou wilt confide in him, who lives

Upon thy truth relying.



Oh say not 'twere a keener blow,

To lose a child of riper years, You cannot know a father's woe

You cannot dry a father's tears ;

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