NAY, DRY THAT TEAR!

NAY, dry that tear!—where'er I stray,

My spirit never shall repine,

While it has power to chase away
The shadows, dear! from thine.

My soul has weathered storms, above
The strength of feeble minds to bear;
But

may not see the cheek I love

Dimmed by affliction's tear,

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NAY, DRY THAT TEAR!

'Tis bliss enough for me, to rest
Beneath the ray of that blue eye,—

Or, pillowed on thy gentle breast,
To echo back its sigh!

But oh! that eye must not be wet

With aught that speaks the touch of sorrow,

Nor must the murmur of regret

Thy sigh's soft music borrow!

Oh! may thy looks be ever bright

With that sweet smile which peace discloses,

And o'er the young cheek sheds its light,
Like sunbeams upon roses!

And may thy sighs-if sighs e'er start,-
Light as the wings to seraphs given,
Come from the heaven of thy heart,

To waft the heart to heaven!

ANACREONTIC.

IF TO-MORROW MAY DAWN ON A STORMY DAY.

If to-morrow may dawn on a stormy day,―
If the smile in pleasure's eyes

By the cloud of despair may be chased away,
Like the visions of summer skies,—

If joy be a vanishing beam, at best,

Like the lights o'er northern seas,—

Oh! where is the heart that would coldly waste

The sunshine of moments like these!

Then fill—fill high the sparkling glass,

And crown the moments, as they pass!

If bliss be a frail and perishing flower,

Born only to decay,

Oh! who-when it blooms but a single hour,

Would fling its sweets away!

When storms are abroad, and the world is dark,
And wrecks strew life's abyss,

Oh! who would not anchor his weary bark,

In the calm of a port like this!

Then, though round about us life's tempests roll,
We'll cling to our moorings,-the bottle and bowl!

When lovers are false, and friends unkind,

And the lights of life are flown,

Remember that, here, we still can find

A bright little world of our own ;

Whose sun is a sun that beams all night,

In the hearts that round us shine;

Be our's the sun that shines all night,

And the blushing wave that reflects its light!

If hope, when she spreads her gossamer sail

Along life's billowy waste,

Is sure to be tossed by misfortune's gale,
And to perish at length in the blast,-

Let us launch her, at once, on this purple tide,
Where her vessel can always float,

While mirth's gay streamers flow, far and wide, Around her gilded boat!—

O'er seas of wine when hope is afloat,

Our's are the spirits to ballast her boat!