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392 FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

She loves him yet! 
Thro' all Love's sweet disguises
In timid girls,
A blush will be sure to speak.

But deeper signs
Than the radiant blush of beauty,
The maiden finds,
Whenever his name is heard;-
Her young heart thrills,
Forgetting herself - her duty -
Her dark eye fills,
And her pulse with hope is stirr'd.

She loves him yet!
The flower the false one gave her
When last he came,
Is still with her wild tears wet,
She'll ne'er forget,
Howe'er his faith may waver,
Thro' grief and shame,
Believe it - she loves him yet!

His favourite songs
She will sing - she heeds - no other;
With all her wrongs
Her life on his love is set.
Oh! doubt no more!
She never can wed another:
Till life be o'er,
She loves - she will love him yet!

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

BELIEVE me, 't is no pang of jealous pride
That brings these tears I know not how to hide;
I only grieve because - because - I see
Thou find'st not all thy heart demands in me.

FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 393

I only grieve that others, who care less
For thy dear love, thy lightest wish may bless;
That while to them thou'rt nothing - all to me,
They may a moment minister to thee!

Ah! If a fairy's magic might were mine,
I'd joy to change with each new wish of thine;
Nothing to all the world beside I'd be,
And everything thou lov'st, in turn to thee!

Pliant as clouds, that haunt the sun-god still,
I'd catch each ray of thy prismatic will;
I'd be a flower - a wild, sweet flower I'd be,
And sigh my very life away for thee.

I'd be a gem and drink light from the sun,
To glad thee with, if gems thy fancy won;
Were birds thy joy, I'd light with docile glee
Upon thy hand, and shut my wings for thee!

Could a wild wave thy glance of pleasure meet,
I'd lay my crown of spray-pearls at thy feet;
Or could a star delight thy heart, I'd be
The happiest star that ever look'd on thee!

If music lured thy spirit, I would take 
A tune's aerial beauty for thy sake;
And float into thy soul, till I could see
How to become all melody to thee.

The weed, that by the garden blossom grows,
Would, if it could, be glorious as the rose;
It tries to bloom - its soul to light aspires;
The love of beauty every fibre fires.

And I - no luminous cloud floats by above,
But wins at once my envy and my love,
So passionately wild this thirst in me,
To be all beauty and all grace to thee!