Is broken off, and often turn’d
    With careless heart away,
  And hatred fills the self same place
    Where gentle love had sway.

  But oh! how poison’d is the dart
    That sheds its venom there,
  And drives uncherish’d from the heart,
    The gift so good and fair.

  An aching void must ever dwell
    Within the stricken heart;
  For who can all the suff’ring tell
    When friends in hatred part?

  Then do not fondly cling to earth,
    Where all things must decay: 
  Where happiness scarce has its birth
    Ere it is swept away.

  Lean not on earth, ’twill pierce the heart,
    At best a broken reed,
  And oft a spear where hope expires,
    And peace as often bleeds.

  But far beyond yon azure sky,
    Yon sparkling star-lit dome,
  Let your aspiring hopes ascend,
    For there’s your heav’nly home.

To a Friend

  I love to watch thy youthful eye,
    That speaks thy fond affection;
  I love to hear thy tender sigh,—­
    It charms my deep dejection.

  The gentle beamings of that eye
    Have power to soothe each sorrow,
  While casting hope’s refulgent dye,
    In glances, on to-morrow.

  My love is clear as crystal streams,
    Flowing from sylvan fountains,—­
  And pure as Phoebus’ noon-day beams,
    That gild yon rising mountains.

  And constant as the Northern Bear,
    That guards the pole unceasing,
  And ushers in the new-born year,—­
    Nor waning, nor decreasing.

  But still, shouldst thou faithless prove,
    Thy plighted vows resigning,
  Leave me and seek another love,
    I’d bear, without repining.

  No discontent should fill my breast,
    But calm as summer even,
  I’d still look forward to my rest,
    In yonder vaulted heaven.

  And still I’d breathe my pray’r for thee
    With all my soul’s devotion,
  Till life itself should cease to be,
    And death chill’d each emotion.

  Then calm as day’s expiring breath,
    Each injury forgiven,
  My ransom’d soul should take its flight,
    And wing its way to Heaven.

The Mother and Her Child.

  Child, raise a fervent prayer to heav’n,
  That this day’s sin may be forgiv’n,
  Ere you sink to sweet repose,
  While evening’s shadows round you close.

  The golden sun has sunk to rest,
  Behind the curtains of the west,
  And rosy twilight, soft and mild,
  Brings gentle slumber to my child.

  The busy, bustling cares of day,
  In noise and tumult pass’d away;
  Solemn night, so still and deep,
  Bids nature’s wearied children sleep.

  Soft is the pillow of your rest,—­
  With health and friends, and comforts blest;
  Then raise a fervent prayer to heav’n,
  That ev’ry sin may be forgiv’n.