KINDRED HEARTS.

OH! ask not, hope thou not too much

Of sympathy below;

Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountains flow:
Few-and by still conflicting powers

Forbidden here to meet

Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye
Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky,
Where the rich sunset burns:
It may be, that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring—
A dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times-
A sorrowful delight!

The melody of distant chimes,

The sound of waves by night,

'The wind that, with so many a tone,
Some chord within can thrill—
These may have language all thine own,
To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true

And steadfast love of years;

The kindly, that from childhood grew,

The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one that o'er the dead

Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watched through sickness by thy bed—
Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made,
Wherein bright spirits blend,

Like sister flowers of one sweet shade
With the same breeze that bend,-
For that full bliss of thought allied,
Never to mortals given-

Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto Heaven.

THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.*

'Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours,
As they floated in light away,

By the opening and the folding flowers,
That laugh to the summer's day.

Thus had each moment its own rich hue,
And its graceful cup and bell,

In whose colored vase might sleep the dew,
Like a pearl in an ocean-shell.

To such sweet signs might the time have flowed

In a golden current on,

*This dial was, I believe, formed by Linnæus, and marked the hours by the opening and closing, at regular intervals, of the flowers arranged in it.

Ere from the garden, man's first abode,
The glorious guests were gone.

So might the days have been brightly told-
Those days of song and dreams—
When shepherds gathered their flocks of old
By the blue Arcadian streams.

So in those isles of delight, that rest
Far off in a breezeless main,

Which many a bark with a weary quest,
Has sought, but still in vain.

Yet is not life, in its real flight,

Marked thus-even thus-on earth, By the closing of one hope's delight, And another's gentle birth?

Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower,
Shutting in turn, may leave

A lingerer still for the sunset hour,
A charm for the shaded eve.

LOVE'S FIRST DREAM.

BRIGHT is the froth of an eastern wave,
As it plays in the sun's last glow;
Pure is the pearl in its crystal bed,
Gemming the worlds below;

Warm is the heart that mingles its blood

In the red tide of glory's stream;

But more flashingly bright, more pure, more warm, Is love's first dream!

Hope paints the vision, with hues of her own,
In all the colors of spring;

While the young lip breathes, like a dewy rose
Fanned by the fire-fly's wing.

'Tis a fairy scene, where the fond soul roves,
Exulting in passion's warm beam;

Ah! sad 't is to think we should wake with a chill,
From love's first dream!

But it fades like the rainbow's brilliant arch,

Scattered by clouds and wind;

Leaving the spirit, unrobed of light,

In darkness and tears behind.

When mortals look back on the heartfelt woes
They have met with in life's rough stream,
That sigh will be deepest which memory gives
To love's first dream!

d

THE FATHER.

"Yes, I am he,-who look'd and saw decay

Steal o'er the lov'd of earth,-the ador'd too much.-
It is a fearful thing, to love what Death may touch."
MRS. HEMANS.

I WAS in the full tide of a laborious and absorbing profession,-of one which imposes on intellect an unsparing discipline, but ultimately opens the avenues to wealth and fame. I pursued it, as one determined on distinction,—as one convinced that mind may assume a degree of omnipotence over matter and circumstance, and popular opinion. Ambition's promptings were strong within me, nor was its career unprosperous.—I had no reason to complain that its promises were deceptive, or its harvest tardy.

Yet as my path was among the competitions and asperities of men, a character combining strong elements might have been in danger of becoming indurated, had it not been softened and refined by the domestic charities. Conjugal love, early fixing on an object most amiable and beautiful, was as a fountain of living water, springing up to allay thirst, and to renovate weariness. I was anxious that my home should be the centre of intellectual and polished society, where the buddings of thought should