BY MISS M. J. JEWSBURY. Nor in envy, ire, or grief, I have sought her long and well. Not in anger;-inward joys Have been mine, and meed of praise,Payment vast for idle toys, Fleeting, unsubstantial lays ; Sandy columns wind destroys, And that wind again can raise. No, nor yet in grief we part,- Not in envy;-though around, I behold the sons of song,- Not in envy ;-though I know Neither wreath nor radiance mine; I will yet pay homage low, Pilgrim-like, at every shrine; Seek where buds and blossoms grow, And for others garlands twine. Never hath my Muse bereaved me, Truer friend I scarce could gain; Ne'er among the things that grieved me, Yet I bid the art adieu, It may be, adieu for ever; I abjure the Syren too, Vain, I own, my best endeavour; Though I smite the rock of song, At my stroke no stream will flow,- Bidden come, or mastered go; Farewell Muse!—vouchsafing never Broken, stringless, soon art thou; Literary Souvenir. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you 't is true, Yet, wildings of nature, I doat upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of broken blades breathing their balm ; While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note, Made music that sweetened the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune I thought it delightful your beauties to find When the magic of nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell. Even now what affections the violet awakes; Can the wild water-lily restore. What landscape I read in the primrose's looks; Earth's cultureless buds! to my heart ye were dear Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear, Had scathed my existence's bloom; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb. New Monthly Magazine. THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL. WHY do I weep?—to leave the vine, I leave thee, sister—we have played Where the silvery green of the olive shade Have been as we may be no more- I leave thee, father!-Eve's bright moon With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune, Thy homeward steps to greet! Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child, Lay tones of love so deep, Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled,— I leave thee!-let me weep! Mother! I leave thee !-on thy breast, Pouring out joy and woe, I have found that holy place of rest Lips that have lulled me with your strain, Will earth give love like yours again?— Sweet mother, let me weep! Morning Chronicle. HOLYROOD. THE moonlight fell like pity o'er the walls But seeks communion with that other state, In which it may conceal its strife of thought, But it is utterly changed: |