THE BROKEN VOW.

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, ESQ.

I HAVE a lock of raven hair,
A gold ring, and a glove;
They are the tokens of a fair,-
A fair and faithless love.

My kisses, yet, are on her lips,

The blush scarce from her brow; Her witching tongue seems yet to speak The false and joyless vow.

She sat, and, with her lily hand,
Pressed her ripe rosy cheek;
And glanced on me her hazel eye,
Which speechless love did speak.
A gentle lisp was on her tongue,

With words both mild and meek :Oh! soon my sick and slighted heart Maun scorn her, or maun break!

Her homely hose are cast aside,

Her bodice jimp and brown;

She wears a mantle rich and rare,

And gold upon her gown.

The song I love no more she sings,
By river-bank and grove ;

Nor 'neath the dewy star-light comes,

To meet her own true love.

Go, show those gems and links of gold,
Hung o'er thy bosom bare:

Go, dance till all those diamonds gleam,
Which star thy inky hair :

Go, show thy bowers and gilded halls,
And lands both broad and fair;

Then kneel, and show thy heart to God,—
What broken vows are there!

THE MOURNER.

BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE.

"Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove."

I STOOD beside the parting bed
Of all I ever loved below;

I gazed until the soul was fled

From earthly pangs, and earthly woe :— Then the first tears were felt to flow Which thou, sweet angel! didst not share; Then, first, my heart was doomed to know The loneliness of cold despair!

Till then, though many a grief were mine, That well might wring the sternest breast,― With loveliness and love like thine,

I was not could not be-unblest:

For when, with causeless wrongs opprest,
From the false world I fled to thee,

Thy smiles could soothe the thought to rest
Which but for them-were agony!

Now am I left to beat, alone,

A shattered bark on life's rough sea;—
To muse on pleasures fled and gone,

On hopes that ne'er can beam for me!—
Once to have been-and not to be—
THIS wakes the pang that cannot die;
As none, but those who once were free,
Feel the full weight of slavery !

But oh! I may not thus repine,-
Guilt mingles with the vain regret ;
And, though the gem that once was mine
I cannot save in death-forget,
E'en while the mourner's eye is wet
With nature's tears for nature's woe,
There is a balm-a solace, yet,

For all that wrongs or wounds below.

My griefs remain-but thine are o'er!
My loss thy endless gain shall be!

I weep-but thou canst mourn no more!
I still am bound-but thou art free!
My joy was ever bliss to thee,

Then be thy bliss my solace now;
Until thy perfect charms I see
In happier regions,-blest as thou!

WELSH MELODY.

AIR-MORFA RHUDDLAN*.

AWAY to thy forest, thou down-stooping raven!
Away from the banquet the Saxon has spread!
And thou, smiling river, roll on to their haven
Thy beautiful waters-insult not the dead.
Your path is in freedom still, billow and pinion,
In sunshine, in shadow, have yet a domain ;
But, ghosts of my fathers, your plume of dominion
Shall float in ascendance, no, never again!

I heard, in my slumbers, your harps wailing lowly,
I dreamt of dishonour, but none would believe,
Nor deem that in battle for pledges so holy,

The sword of the Briton should ever deceive;
Woe, woe! for Caradoc, the gloriously gifted,
The last of the Cymri, lies cold on the plain;

* In the year 795, a dreadful battle was fought, in the Marsh of Rhuddlan, betwixt the Welsh, under their leader Caradoc, and the Saxon forces, under Offa, king of Mercia. The Welsh were routed, their commanders slain, and a cruel and indiscriminate massacre took place, by order of the Saxon prince.