I'm much too young to marry, For I am only seventeen; Why think I, then, of Harry?

What can it mean--what can it mean?

Wherever Harry meets me, Beside the brook or on the green, How tenderly he greets me!

What can it mean--what can it mean?

Whene'er my name he utters, A blush upon my cheek is seen!-- His voice my bosom flutters!-- What can it mean--what can it mean?

If he but mentions Cupid, Or, smiling, calls me "fairy queen,"

I sigh, and looks so stupid!-- What can it mean--what can it mean?

Oh, mercy! what can ail me?

I'm growing wan and very lean; My spirits often fail me!

What can it mean--what can it mean?

I'm not in love!--No!--Smother Such a thought at seventeen!

I'll go and ask my mother-- "What can it mean--what can it mean?"

Where Hudson's Wave.

Where Hudson's wave o'er silvery sands Winds through the hills afar, Old Cronest like a monarch stands, Crowned with a single star!

And there, amid the billowy swells Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capped earth, My fair and gentle Ida dwells, A nymph of mountain-birth.

The snow-flake that the cliff receives, The diamonds of the showers, Spring's tender blossoms, buds, and leaves, The sisterhood of flowers, Morn's early beam, eve's balmy breeze, Her purity define; Yet Ida's dearer far than these To this fond breast of mine.

My heart is on the hills. The shades Of night are on my brow; Ye pleasant haunts and quiet glades, My soul is with you now!

I bless the star-crowned highlands where My Ida's footsteps roam: O for a falcon's wing to bear Me onward to my home!

Au Revoir.

Love left one day his leafy bower, And roamed in sportive vein, Where Vanity had built a tower, For Fashion's sparkling train.

The mistress to see he requested, Of one who attended the door: "Not home," said the page, who suggested That he'd leave his card.--"Au Revoir."

Love next came to a lowly bower: A maid who knew no guile, Unlike the lady of the tower, Received him with a smile.

Since then the cot beams with his brightness Though often at Vanity's door Love calls, merely out of politeness, And just leaves his card.--"Au Revoir."

To My Absent Daughter.

Georgie, come home!--Life's tendrils cling about thee, Where'er thou art, by wayward fancy led.

We miss thee, love!--Home is not home without thee-- The light and glory of the house have fled: The autumn shiver of the linden-tree Is like the pang that thrills my frame for thee!

Georgie, come home!--To parents, brother, sister Thy place is vacant in this lonely hall, Where shines the river through the "Jeannie Vista,"

While twilight shadows lengthen on the wall: Our spirits falter at the close of day, And weary night moves tardily away.

Georgie, come home!--The winds and waves are singing The mournful music of their parting song, To soul and sense the sad forboding bringing, Some ill detains thee in the town so long: Oh, that the morn may dissipate the fear, And bring good tidings of my daughter dear!

Georgie, come home!--The forest leaves are falling, And dreary visions in thy absence come; The fountain on the hill in vain is calling Thee, my beloved one, to thy woodland home.

And I imagine every pa.s.sing breeze Whispers thy name among the moaning trees!

Georgie, come home!--Thy gentle look can banish The gathering gloom round this once cheerful hearth; In thy sweet presence all our care will vanish, And sorrow soften into mellow mirth.

Return, my darling, never more to roam: Heart of the Highlands!--Georgie, dear, come home!

Song of the Sewing-Machine

I'm the Iron Needle-Woman!

Wrought of sterner stuff than clay; And, unlike the drudges human, Never weary night or day; Never shedding tears of sorrow, Never mourning friends untrue, Never caring for the morrow, Never begging work to do.

Poverty brings no disaster!

Merrily I glide along, For no thankless, sordid master, Ever seeks to do me wrong: No extortioners oppress me, No insulting words I dread-- I've no children to distress me With unceasing cries for bread.

I'm of hardy form and feature, For endurance framed aright; I'm not pale misfortune's creature, Doomed life's battle here to fight: Mine's a song of cheerful measure, And no under-currents flow To destroy the throb of pleasure Which the poor so seldom know.

In the hall I hold my station, With the wealthy ones of earth, Who commend me to the nation For economy and worth, While unpaid the female labor, In the attic-chamber lone, Where the smile of friend or neighbor Never for a moment shone.

My creation is a blessing To the indigent secured, Banishing the cares distressing Which so many have endured: Mine are sinews superhuman, Ribs of oak and nerves of steel-- I'm the Iron Needle-Woman Born to toil and not to feel.