Tbe hcart- the heart! oh! let it ba A truc and bounteous thing, As Iiindly warm, as nobly Tree, As eagle's nestling vmg. Oh! keep it not, like miser's gold, Shut in f rom all beside, But let its precious stores unfold, In morcy, far and wide. The heart- the heart that's truly biest, Ia ncvcr all its o wn: No ray of glory lighta the breaat, That beats foraolf alone. Tbe heart - the heart ! oh! let ie spare A sig-h for othere pain; The breath thal eoothsa brother's care Is never spent in vain. And ihough it throb at gentleet touch, Or Borrovv's faintest ca!l 'Twero better it should ache too much, Than nevcr ache at all. The heart- the heart, that'a truly biest, Is nercr all its own; No ray of glory Ughis the breast, That beats for seJf alone.