MADE FOR OUR AMUSEMENT ONE EVENING .

There was a little maiden,
And cross and proud was she,
And I loved her very much,
And she loved me!

She determined to live single,
And I begged and prayed her not,
So at last she married me,
And I pitied her hard lot,

There was another maiden
Who hated me, and I
Hated her — she loved her lover
Always best when I was by.

Soft o'er the meadow, and murmuring mere,
Falleth a shadow, near and more near;
Day like a white dove floats down the sky,
Cometh the night, love, darkness is high;
So dies the happiest day.

Slow in thy dark eye riseth a tear,
Hear I thy sad sigh, Sorrow is near;
Hope smiling bright, love, dies on my breast,
As day like a white dove flies down the west;
So dies the happiest day.

Gently fall the snow-flakes
From the clouds above,
Noiselessly and joyously
As the breath of love,
Noiseless in their gaiety,
Gentle in their mirth,
As they spread their robes of purity
Softly o'er the earth.

Beauteous types of Innocence!
Delicately fair
As the thoughts of Angels
Hov'ring in the air:
Not less pure and innocent
Is each little dove, —
Each joyous, sparkling snow-drop
In the cot of Love.

Yes, prattling little Children!
Germs of Love are ye,
Spotless as the snow-drops,

SET TO MUSIC BY MR. VOIGHT.

What do I love? A polish'd mind,
A temper cheerful, meek, and kind;
A graceful air, unsway'd by art,
A voice that sinks into the heart,
A playful and benignant smile —
Alas! my heart responds the while,
All this, my Emily, is true,
But I love more in loving you!

I love those roses when they rise,
From joy, from anger, or surprise;
I love the kind, attentive zeal,
So prompt to know what others feel,

I SAMUEL, XV .

" Surely the bitterness of death is past, "
Cried he whose safety Saul the sovereign willed
When all the blood of Amalek else was spilled
And at his nation's grave he stood, the last.
But Samuel came with countenance overcast,
With wrath aroused and charity all chilled,
And there before the Lord was Agag killed,
Hewed into pieces by the Enthusiast.
Prophet of Love! whose covenant hath reversed

Death has ordained thee out of all my dreams
And dealt me bitter check to my pursuit;
My sunlight fails while tears are absolute,
And night falls ever chill, with scanty gleams
From clouded stars that mock the dull moon's beams.
My summer land, long fair with flowers and fruit,
Far cumbered lies with rotted branch and root,
In dismal fields by hopeless stagnant streams.
Death has redeemed thee out of toilsome days
And bound thy harvest in a single sheaf,
While I went forward over saddened ways
Whose barren progress brings but slow relief;

Once Reason, calm, majestic maid,
Thro' bosky gloom of garden strayed —
A garden planned in every part
To please the mind yet scarce the heart.
'Tis true the level walks, the bowers,
Were gemmed with all the fairest flowers
That royal Nature's bounteous hand
Had flung upon that radiant land,
Where Summer kisses Summer's lips,
And all the year the brown bee sips
His nectar from the chain of flowers
That stretches o'er those sunny hours,
And finds no missing link of bloom
To cloud his busy life with gloom.

There beat a heart whose life was grown
A thing by Grief made all its own;
Which felt Affliction's heavy power,
Each minute of each weary hour,
And counted every day that pass'd,
By being bitt'rer than the last.
Then came full many a lovely thing,
A comfort to his woe to bring,
And tried by smile, and play, and jest,
To melt the icebands from his breast
Mirth, with her eye half hid below
The archly-drooping lid of snow,
Danc'd near with feet as quick and bright
As glances from the wave the light,
And call'd him from his trance away,

Said Love to Hate, " I shall destroy you yet;
Around my throne your servitors shall stand
To gaze on me, till they your name forget,
And you, yourself, shall bid my foes disband. "

Said Love to Hate, " I shall destroy you yet;
Around my throne your servitors shall stand
To gaze on me, till they your name forget,
And you, yourself, shall bid my foes disband. "

I.

Fairest of flowers by fountain or lake.
Listen, my fawn-eyed one, wake, oh awake!
Pride of the prairies, one look from thy bower
Will gladden my spirits like dew-drops the flower.

II.

Thy glances to music my soul can attune,
As sweet as the murmur of young leaves in June;
Then breathe but a whisper from lips that disclose
A balm like the morning or autumn's last rose.

III.

My pulse leaps toward thee like fountains when first
Through their ice chains in April toward Heaven they burst;