When o'er my dark and wayward soul
The clouds of nameless Sorrow roll;
When Hope no more her wreath will twine
And Memory sits at Sorrow's shrine;
Nor aught to joy my soul can move
I muse upon a Sister's Love.

When tired with study's graver toil
I pant for sweet Affection's smile,
And rich with restless hopes of fame,
Would half forgo the panting aim
I drop the book,—and thought will rove,
To greet a Sister's priceless Love.

When all the world seems cold and stern,
And bids the bosom vainly yearn;
When Woman's heart is lightly changed,

Jesus never will forget me,
When I'm young, or when I'm old.
With His precious blood He bought me;
So, you see, to Him I'm sold.

He could not forget His loved ones,
Who to Him are very dear;
Resting in His loving bosom
I have not a single fear.

In His hands my name is written,
In His heart He thinks of me;
And He'll soon come back to take me
Where with Him I'll always be.

He, Himself, appears as bail
when I am taken before the court,
and He teaches me to be obedient
and to live in His light.
Art merely puffs up, love constructs,
all comes to naught unless God's Bride
rules in a royal way. O Love! O love!
Lead us with thee by thy hand,
by thy bands of love, for false
love misguides! Amen!
Alexander Mack.

She never giveSherself for love? No doubt.
She has to buy her loves or do without!

Though from the painted Britons Claudia came,
Her noble soul befits the Roman race,
Her kinship dames of Italy might claim,
Greeks laud her beauty; and by heaven's grace
Offspring she hath, so ere her lovely face
Hath lost its youth, they too shall wed, and she
Loving her lord, in him shall ever place
Her trust, rejoicing in her children three.

My pleasant solace, my delightful care,
Than whom no heart has ever been more dear,
O give me first a kiss with wine-stained lip
Before I take the cup wherefroMyou sip:
And then if you will love's true joys bestow,
Not Jove himself surpasses me, I trow.

Stay , traveller, and pass not by
This noble monument unread,
The city's darling here doth lie,
Wit, art, and grace with him are fled
And Rome doth mourn uncomforted.
Lost is her dear delight and prize,
For love and all desire are dead,
Hid in the grave where Paris lies.

I WOULD, indeed, that Heaven had made me meek,
Content to hold and fill a second place,
Take lesser love as undeservèd grace,
And bow my thankful head when one should speak
Me gently, touch with careless hand my cheek,
Or bend sometimes and kiss my unpraised face,
Since she, forsooth, is in her far-off place
For whom his highest homage seemed too weak.

But I was made with passionate, strong soul,
And what I would, I would have wholly mine;
And if I bow my head to Love's control,
And to his keeping all myself consign,

Not the unshriven wrong or the unpaid debt
Here in the crumbling years is my worst regret—
Rather the memory of one joy wasted:
Of a stupid, youthful righteousness that reckoned
Too bloodlessly, and once, when wild love beckoned,
Fled, leaving the perilous sweet sin untasted.

There's a heaven on earth—
A heaven that's mine—
In the gift of her heart
Whose love is divine.

There's a light in her eye,
That wins without art;
And there's grace in her step,
And joy in her heart.

When the heart blends with heart,
Confiding and true,
Then on earth there's a heaven,
With joys ever new.