Thou can'st win the world's applause, Thou'rt a wit and bel esprit, Living upon flattery; But I'd rather all my days When thou singest, hearts beat low, Admiration great and free, With a whispered "I love thee," Oft I think, against my will, Notwithstanding all I see Thou hast chosen,-so have I,- In thy track I'll cease to run, I will end as I begun : She whom I would choose for life, For my love, my friend, my wife, BROKEN SILENCE. By J. WESTLAND MARSTON, author of the "Patrician's Daughter." O BREAK not her silence!-she listens to voices Whose tones are a feeling, whose echoes a thrill; And more than in aught that is real she rejoices In dreams which presage what they ne'er can fulfil,— The dreams, the first fond dreams of love! O, break not her silence!-her heart is replying To chords that are swept by a breeze from the past; No hymn in the present can match with that sighing O'er hopes which, though vanished, were dear to the last,-The hopes, the first bright hopes of youth! Thou can'st not break her silence!-no word that is spoken Can now wound her ear, no regret dim her eyes; Thou can'st not break her silence; yet, hark! it is broken,— "Come hither, come hither,"-a voice from the skies! "Come hither,"-a voice from the skies! BLUE IS THE SKY. G. MEREDITH. BLUE is the sky, blue is thine eye, And both of heavenly nature. Blue is the sky, blue is thine eye, May so fulfil thy mission, That light and love from Heaven above, And star and soul, my bridal dove, May blend and open Heaven to me, LOVE IN HATE. CHARLES MACKAY. From "Legends of the Isles and other poems,” `1845. Robb'd of peace and virgin fame. I would strike-and die, confessing Oh, if in my bosom lying, I could work him deadly scathe! I would cover with embraces Lips, that once his love confessed, And that falsest of false faces, Mad, enraptured, unrepressed; Then in agony of pity I would die upon his breast. LOVE NOT. HON. MRS. NORTON. LOVE not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay; Love not, love not: the thing you love may die- Love not, love not. E Love not, love not: the thing you love may change, The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange, Love not, love not. Love not, love not: oh! warning vainly said, NDER the title of Pastoral and Rural Songs may be included UNDER some of the most beautiful specimens of our early poetical literature. Vast quantities of these songs, once popular among the English people, anterior to the reign of Elizabeth, have perished altogether. Many of them in all probability were never committed. to the custody of print and paper, and escaped with the breath of the wandering minstrels who composed and sang them. Others, again, at a somewhat later period, fared but little better at the hands of Time. "The ancient songs of the people," says D'Israeli the elder, "perished by having been printed in single sheets, and by their humble purchasers having no other library to preserve them than the walls on which they pasted them. Those we now have consist of a succeeding race of ballads," The pastoral lovesongs, which we owe chiefly to the writers of the age of the |