LINES

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF IN OSSIAN'S POEMS.

IN all that Genius calls its own,

The "Bard of Cona" soars sublime! And where the Muses' powers are known, His fame shall brave the blast of Time!

His was the soft persuasive art!

Whene'er his fingers touched the lyre;
To melt in sympathy the heart,
Or thrill the soul with Glory's fire.

Unblest with Learning's ray refined,
He warbled-Nature's favorite child-
His notes bespoke his feeling mind,
Sublimely simple-sweetly wild.

Sweet Poet! while the Muses' flame
Within my heart enrapturing glows,
That heart shall pay thy honored name
The homage which it justly owes.

1810.

IN HER ISLAND HOME.

WRITTEN IN MISS BRONSON'S ALBUM.

[In the olden time, a sect of Persian philosophers formed a society dedi. cated to Silence. Their number was limited to ten. One of the brotherhood, a personage who was never known to speak in his lifetime, and of whom no one has ever been heard to speak since, died. Among the applicants for the vacant chair was "Sadi," a "sage grave man,” remarkable for saying nothing, at least nothing to the purpose. Unfortunately, ere he reached the place of meeting, the choice had fallen on another. The president announced this by placing a wineglass on the table, and filling it up to the brim. As Sadi entered, he pointed toward it. Sadi bowed, as is usual on such occasions, then took a roseleaf from the floor, and placed it so lightly on the bubbles of the wine, that not a drop was spilt. They received him.-Cotton Mather.]

N her island home, her home of flowers,

The Queen of Beauty sat at noon,

In the shade of one of her wild-rose bowers,
Watching the spray of the bright sea-showers,
As it sparkled in the sun of June.

And the smile of delight round her lip that played
Was as sweet as a smile can be,

For that day had her minstrel-worshippers laid
On her altar a book where each pen had paid
Its vows to their island-deity.

Its words still breathed, though the ink was cold
As the hopes of the hearts she had fettered,
A magical name on the book was enrolled,
And its hot-pressed pages were tipped with gold,
And 'twas bound in green, and lettered.

As she counted the leaves, and counted o'er
The victims her frowns had killed,

A stranger-bard, from a far-off shore,

Came blushing, and said, "Here is one song more;" She answered, "The pages are filled.”

He sighed, of course, but he manfully strove
To check the sigh as it rose ;

And, plucking a roseleaf, he tremblingly wove
Into very bad verses the tale which, above,
Is written in good plain prose.

And added, "In coming hours, Lady, when you
On the tears of your victims are feeding,
As the sunbeam feeds upon drops of dew,
Keep this withered leaf in the book—'twill do
To mark where you left off reading."

11

TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN.

HERE'S one who long will think of thee,
Though thou art cold in death's last sleep;

There's one will love thy memory

Till his own grave the night-dews steep.

And if no outward tears he weep,

And none his silent sorrows know,

Still doth his heart its vigils keep
Beside the spot where thou art low.

Sad was thy mortal pilgrimage,

And bitter tears thine eyes have shed; But now the storm hath spent its rage;

The turf is green above thy head,
And, loveliest of the buried dead,

Sweet may thy dreamless slumbers be;
Thy grave the summer's bridal bed,
Her evening winds thy minstrelsy.

As withered on thy check the rose,

I cursed the hour when love betrayed thee; 'Twas mine, in death, thine eyes to close, And watch till on the bier they laid thee.

No gloomy cypress-boughs shall shade thee, No marble thy sad story tell;

The cruel world shall ne'er upbraid thee

With having loved-and loved too well.