THE LAST WISH.

Go to the forest shade ;

Seek thou the well-known glade Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie, Gleaming through moss-tufts deep,

Like dark eyes filled with sleep,

And bathed in hues of summer's midnight sky.

Bring me their buds, to shed

Around my dying bed,

A breath of May, and of the wood's repose;

For I, in sooth, depart

With a reluctant heart,

That fain would linger where the bright sun glows.

Fain would I stay with thee,

Alas! this must not be ;

Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours!

Go where the fountain's breast

Catches, in glassy rest,

The dim green light that pours through laurel bowers.

I know how softly bright,

Steeped in that tender light,

The water-lilies tremble there, e'en now;

Go to the pure stream's edge,

Aud, from its whispering sedge,

Bring me those flowers, to cool my fevered brow.

Then, as in Hope's young days,-
Track thou the antique maze

Of the rich garden, to its grassy mound

There is a lone white rose,

Shedding, in sudden snows,

;

Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around!

Well know'st thou that fair tree!

-A murmur of the bee

Dwells, ever, in the honied lime above;
Bring me one pearly flower,

Of all its clustering shower,

For, on that spot we first revealed our love!

Gather one woodbine bough,

Then, from the lattice low

Of the bowered cottage which I bade thee mark,
When, by the hamlet, last,

Through dim wood-lanes, we passed,

Where dews were glancing to the glow-worm's spark.

Haste! to my pillow bear

Those fragrant things, and fair;—

My hand no more may bind them up at eve;

Yet shall their odour soft

One bright dream round me waft,

Of life, youth, summer,—all that I must leave!

And oh! if thou would'st ask

Wherefore thy steps I task

The grove, the stream, the hamlet-vale to trace ; "Tis that some thought of me -When I am gone,—may be

The spirit bound to each familiar place.

I bid mine image dwell,

(Oh! break thou not the spell!)

In the deep wood, and by the fountain side!
Thou must not, my beloved!

Rove where we two have roved,

Forgetting her that in her spring-time died!

OF THE

F. H.

AN ADDRESS TO THE GARDEN ROLL.

A MOCK HEROIC.

Written for the Album at B; in which are Verses on the Garden Pump, an old Chair, and an Hour-Glass.

BY MRS. OPIE.

How sweet the task, from the inglorious shade
To call neglected merit, and to urge

Its claims to just applause,-claims which itself
Can never hope to urge !-That task be mine!

Hail, Garden Roll !-What! shall the Garden Pump
Be hung with flowers from fancy's richest wreath,
Nor thou one bud of simple field-flower boast,
To grace thy iron sides! And shall a Chair-
An old and wooden Chair, of cumbrous form-
Call forth the sweetest carols of the Muse;
And eke an Hour Glass ;-yet, shalt thou remain
Unsung, great Garden Roll! No!-in the teeth
Of the old proverb, that the rolling stone
Ne'er gathers moss,-a votive wreath I'll weave,
(But more of moss composed, I fear, than flowers,)
And hang it o'er thee!

Friendly Garden Roll!

Full well I ween that many a beauteous foot
Has cause to bless thy influence here;-for oft,
Even in the slender shoe of Tyrian die,
May lurk some dire excrescences on toe,
Or sole of foot, which-but for thy kind aid—
Had throbbed with agony,-as pointed stone,
Or rough protruding flint lay on the path
Where heedlessly it stept :-but, crushed by thee,
Those foes to feet bow low their humbled heads ;-
For, true republican! thou canst not bear
To see one pert, proud pebble lift its head
Higher than others, nor a lump of earth
Of power ambitious ;--but, before they knit
Close ties with other pebbles-other lumps,
Thy levelling influence keeps their daring down,
And lo!-the gravel, in one equal tint
Of glowing orange, richly spreads around!

But thou, alas! like other potentates,
Can'st not with power be trusted ;-not, alone,
Proud earth or pebble feels thy awful force ;-
Lo! busy ants, beneath the little hills
Their virtuous industry had raised, thy weight
Descending crushes, and their tiny limbs
Buries beneath;-to them, those little hills
Proving like pyramids to Egypt's kings,

Their pride when living, and their graves when dead!
Nor does the humble worm escape thy might;

-Meekest of creatures !-though it never lifts