Star of my Love! most faithless star
That e'er on mortal misery shone!
Years pass — and still thy votaries are
Apart — self-exiled — sad — alone —
And can it be our woes are known
To Heaven, and we still doomed to feel
Pangs which though seraphs breasts were stone
Might stroke upon their hearts like steel,
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! my years decline,
My spirits sink, my hopes decay,

Star of my Love! unmarked of late,
Again on thee my eyes I bend
Celestial messenger of Fate
What thoughts on thy bright path attend!
Evil or Good dost thou portend?
Pleasure or Pain? or Love or Hate?
Alas! how fondly do we blend
Our Earthly with thy heavenly state
What hopes what fears to thee ascend

Star of my Love! I hail again
Thy light on Nights calm, dark, blue, stream,
An absence grief and care and pain
Are as a half forgotten dream:
For she is here whose glances seem
To purify the earth from stain
And lend a more celestial beam
To Heaven and all it's glorious train —
O how our souls with rapture teem!
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! the holiest shrine

Star of my Love! how brightly burns
Thy mild, pure, tranquil flame, tonight,
Though thousands from their chrystal urns
Are pouring floods of silver light,
In thine alone I take delight,
For one who in my absence mourns
Gazes upon thee in thy flight
And every look I give returns
And therefore dost thou seem so bright
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! while thus on high

Here all is heartless, hollow, loud
Vain glittering shew and empty sound:
Society's a lonesome crowd,
Pleasure, the same dull tedious round.

One heart to love — one life to press —
One friend to trust — in some wild glen
Were less a waste, O! ten times less,
Than this vast solitude of men.

( OF JAMES LOWELL PUTNAM, IN ATHENÆUM GALLERY .)

A CALM , sweet face, with earnest eyes
And thoughtful brow, full-arched above it,
A mouth whose graveness won surprise,
Whose tender sweetness made one love it;
A face that told how souls aspire
That look beyond to-day's revealing;
A boy, with all of manhood's fire, —
A man, with all of boyhood's feeling.

They told his life, his honored name,

With the robin for poet-laureate,
And the mayflowers for her train,
And her innocence for her robe of state,
The baby began her reign.

The pretty head with its curly crown
Knows nothing of royal woes;
For love is softer than eider-down,
And yieldeth her sweet repose.

There are loyal and loving hearts alone
In the wee one's fair domain;
And they make the robin's song their own,
For he singeth, " Vive la Reine! "

THIS is the baby I love!
The baby that cannot talk;
The baby that cannot walk;
The baby that just begins to creep;
The baby that's cuddled and rocked to sleep;
Oh, this is the baby I love!

This is the baby I love!
The baby that's never cross;
The baby papa can toss;
The baby that crows when held aloft;
The baby that's rosy and round and soft!
Oh, this is the baby I love!

This is the baby I love!
The baby that laughs when I peep
To see is it still asleep;

LOVE SUPREME

You ask what love is? It is this, my own:
To hold all women pure because of you,
Yet give heart reverence unto you alone,
And for your sake be steadfast, brave, and true.

What a dainty life the milkmaid leads!
When over the flowery meads
She dabbles in the dew,
And sings to her cow;
And feels not the pain
Of love or disdain:
She sleeps in the night though she toils in the day,
And merrily passeth her time away.

What a dainty life the milkmaid leads!
When over the flowery meads
She dabbles in the dew,
And sings to her cow;
And feels not the pain
Of love or disdain:
She sleeps in the night though she toils in the day,
And merrily passeth her time away.