Though the light of its smile on a rival had shone Ere it taught me the way to adore, Shall I scorn the bright gem now I know it my own, Because it was polished before? And though oft the rich sweets of that lip hath been won, As fruit, when caressed by the bright glowing sun, THE DEAD OF 1832. BY R. C. SANDS.. Ob: 1832, æt. 33. Oн Time and Death! with certain pace, The cot, the palace, and the throne! Not always in the storm of war, Nor by the pestilence that sweeps In crowds the good and mighty go, And to those vast dim chambers hie :- Dead Cæsars and dead Shakspeares lie! Dread Ministers of God! sometimes Those whose renown ye cannot kill! When all the brightest stars that burn For where is he*--who lived so long- Where he who backwards to the birth Where he who in the mortal head,t Where he who struck old Albyn's lyre,§ Where he who read the mystic lore,|| Buried, where buried Pharaohs sleep; And dared presumptuous to explore Secrets four thousand years could keep? * Goethe and his Faust. † Cuvier. Spurzheim. § Scott. Champollion. Where he who with a poet's eye* Classic, when in His numbers glazed? Where that old sage so hale and staid,† And thou-whom millions far removed t He too-the heir of glory-where § Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead! But hark! a nation sighs! for he,|| They go-and with them is a crowd, For human rights who THOUGHT and DID, We rear to them no temples proud, Each hath his mental pyramid. All earth is now their sepulchre, The MIND, their monument sublime— Young in eternal fame they are Such are your triumphs, Death and Time. + Jeremy Bentham. * Crabbe. § The Duke of Reichstadt. Adam Clarke. Charles Carroll. TO A LADY WHO DECLARED THAT THE SUN PREVENTED HER FROM SLEEPING. BY J. R. DRAKE. WHY blame old Sol, who, all on fire, Prints on your lip the burning kiss; Were 't mine to guide o'er paths of light Then let the dotard fondly spring, Each rising day, to snatch the prize; "Twill add new vigour to his wing, And speed his journey through the skies. ADDRESS TO A MUSQUITO. BY EDWARD SANFORD. His voice was ever soft, gentle, and low.-King Lear. THOU Sweet musician, that around my bed Feed'st thou my ear with music till 'tis morn? The wind harp's tones are not more soft than thine, I own, indeed, I own thy song divine. And when next year's warm summer nights we meet, (Till then, farewell!) I promise thee to be A patient listener to thy minstrelsy. Thou tiny minstrel, who bid thee discourse Of song developed on thy little skull ? At Niblo's hast thou been when crowds stood mute Tell me the burden of thy ceaseless song, Is it thy evening hymn of grateful prayer, Or lay of love, thou pipest through the long Still night? With song dost drive away dull care? Art thou a vieux garçon, a gay deceiver, A wandering blade, roaming in search of sweets, Pledging thy faith to every fond believer, Who thy advance with half-way shyness meets ? Or art o' the softer sex, and sing'st in glee, "In maiden meditation, fancy free?" Thou little Syren, when the nymphs of yore |