SONG.

EACH flower that expands in the spring's rude gale,
Each earliest bud I'll seek,

The snow-drop pure, and the primrose pale,
Pale as my true love's cheek.

O long, ye fair emblems, unfading bloom,
Though the tempest around ye roar,

For I must soon rest in the silent tomb,
Nor ever shall scatter more.

I'll clasp the grey stones which her ashes infold,
Till my tear-drops forget to flow;

I'll press the green sod, till my bosom is cold
As her's who sleeps below.

Then oh! gentle spirit of her whom I mourn,
Oh, hover awhile for me!

Ere fade the fair flowers that encircle thine urn,
Thy lover shall rest with thee.

H. MELMOTH.

STANZAS ON THE BIRTH OF AN INFANT.

Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art,
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring;
As fair in form, as warm, yet pure in heart,
Love's image upon earth without his wing;
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining.-Byron.

SWEET floweret, thou venturest into a world
Where woe's sable banner is ever unfurled!
Sweet floweret, thou trustest thy young fragile form
Where loud in its fury re-echoes the storm!
And yet it hath isles

Undisturbed by the blast,
Where prosperity's smiles

All their loveliness cast;

And oh! be it thine to be flourishing there,
With a heart warm and free as the calm summer air.

Light be thy slumbers, sweet infant, as now;
Through life's dreary way be all cloudless thy brow;
Calm be thy slumbers, sweet child, may those eyes
Ne'er be dim'd with the tears that from misery rise:
But the tear-drop that flows
From pity's pure source,
Will ne'er blight the rose

On thy cheek in its course :

No, rather 'twill add a fresh charm to its hue,
As the flower is the lovelier when pearl'd with the dew.
By Fortune, sweet girl, may'st thou be unforgot,
Without her, but little of bliss were thy lot;
Without her, whatever thy merits may be,
The world in its pride will look coldly on thee:
If her gifts be denied thee,
Heaven grant thee a mind
For what may betide thee

Still calm and resign'd;

And a heart which, though sensitive, gentle and warm, Can gaze undismay'd on adversity's storm.

There's a lyre, 'tis the last 'mid the rude and the wild,
Yet it ne'er flatter'd folly, nor worth e'er reviled;
There's a heart, that the shackles of error have bound,
Yet, I trust, 'twill not wholly corrupted be found—
If all should belie thee,

That harp shall defend thee;
That heart, should all fly thee,

More firm shall befriend thee: [have, Come weal, or come woe, their best prayers shalt thou Till the harp strings are broken, that heart's in the G. J. DE WILDE.

grave.

EPIGRAM, FROM THE GREEK.

AN atom met the head of Mark the lean;
It sliced it into halves, and walked between.

F. L.

LOVE ELEGY.

so lovely fair,

That what seem'd fair in all the world, seem'd now
Mean, or in her summed up, in her contain'd
And in her looks, which from that time infused
Sweetness into my heart unfelt before,
And into all things from her air inspired
The spirit of love and amorous delight-
Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye,
In every gesture dignity and love.-Milton.

FORTH went my love to breathe the gale of Eve,
And quaff the liquid radiance of the west;
Joy hovered o'er her; Passions frolicked round,
And virgin Loves sat smiling on her breast.
Fair as a Vision dimly seen afar

On the grey mountain ridge, or sky-girt plain, Or onward gliding through the heaven's high way, Or looming like a meteor on the main:

In awful loveliness it looks abroad,

With sternness mingled in its sunny smile ;Stillness and space in blank attendance wait, And gazing wonder is all eye the while : Beams of peculiar radiance flame around, Clear fluid amber and white watery rays; Centered within its own pale light it stands, And sheds through air a seraph's burning blaze: Its silvery-fringed robes of azure pale,

Mild moon-light eye, and high-commanding mien, Speak it of heavenly birth; or else of those That in the shaping mind alone are seen: All as a Spirit of Peace-or beauty's shadeOr Truth within the morning's beams enshrined Or Virtue speaking the behest of Heaven,

It waves an arm of light, and whispers to the wind: So bright, so mild, so phantom-like and fair,

Such breathing beauty and such floating grace,

Is Laura, when the fiery-fronted sun

[face. Gilds all her glowing form, and lights her angel Soft as in wavy elegance she moves, [ground; Gay flowers spring trooping from the enamour'd Heaven smiles, earth gladdens, and a sunny gleam

Of love and laughing pleasance wraps her round. The love-sick breeze went sighing through her hair, And kissed her charming head in circling play, Or on the ripeness of her sever'd lips

Hung panting for a while, then died away. So dainty-featured was her beauteous face,

And such a rose blush crimson'd the smooth white; I felt the blood run mantling to my heart,

That danced as drowned and drunken with delight. Blushingly modest, her dejected eye

Dwelt on the ground, or did but gently roll To where the rival eve-star heavenly shone, Chaste as the maid, and gentle as her soul.

Not the fair tenant of Campanian vales,

The flowering Orange, so can charm the sight, Or shed such sweets, though all of balm its breath, And all its silken bells are snowy white.

Such notes of rapture from her liquid throat

Steal through the ear and wind into the heart, The opening heavens scarce breathe a sweeter sound When sainted souls from mortal bonds depart. Amazement held me in a stupid gaze

And marble muteness, till Confusion came, Flushed my shamed cheek, abash'd my downcast eye, And bathed in blushes all my trembling frame. Now could I prostrate throw me on the ground, And on the hard earth press my trancéd breast, And shame the zeal of him that bows him down, And on his face adores the inflaméd east..

Thou dear extatic power of holy Love,
O! ever may this kindling bosom glow
With thy most sacred flame of heavenly fire,
And ever these fine throbbing tumults know!
"Far be it that I should write thee sin or blame,"*
Or deem unworthy of the sage's breast
That "right Promethean spark"+that lights the world,
And lives, and burns, and animates the rest!

C. NEWTON.

STANZAS, WRITTEN AT CONWAY.
NOW all is hush'd, save where the dashing oar
With measur'd stroke divides the rippling stream,
Or flits the sea-bird round the craggy shore,
And wakes its echoes with unwearied scream.
On
yon
tall tower, that trembles in the blast,
Sits pale Romance, and cons her mystic lore;
Wild to the winds her raven locks are cast,

She weeps for days that shall return no more.
Crouch'd at her feet, the shadowy form of Fear
Owns, as he shudders, her despotic sway,
Lists the wild murmurs of her harp to hear,
And drinks the wonders of her magic lay.
"Illustrious shades" (the wild enthusiast cries),
"Burst in gay vision on my raptured view,
From yawning tombs departed heroes rise,
And tottering Conway's feudal tale renew.
Joyous I see the glittering throng advance,
And iron panoply of war resume,

Gleams in each warrior's hand the quivering lance, Clangs the broad shield, and nods the shadowy plume.

"The youths again the gallant tourney calls, [glaive, Who fired with conquest wield the thundering

• Milton.

+ Shakespeare.