While happy in my father's bower, Thou shalt the blithe memorial be! The fairy sports of infancy, Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime, Home, country, kindred, friends, with thee Are mine in this far clime. Thrice welcome, little English Flower! The sweet May-dews of that fair land, A hundred from one root! Thrice welcome, little English Flower! London Magazine. SILENT LOVE. Oн, I could whisper thee a tale But what would idle words avail Unless the heart might speak its love! To tell that tale my pen were weak ;— W. THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH. BY MRS. HEMANS. The pleasure we felt on discovering the Southern Cross, was warmly shared by such of the crew as had lived in the colonies. In the solitude of the seas, we hail a star, as a friend from whom we have been long separated. Among the Portuguese and Spaniards, peculiar motives seem to increase this feeling; a religious sentiment attaches them to a constellation, the form of which recalls the sign of the faith planted by their ancestors in the deserts of the new world. The two great stars which mark the summit and the foot of the cross, having nearly the same right ascension, it follows hence, that the constellation is almost perpendicular, at the moment when it passes the meridian. This circumstance is known to every nation that lives beyond the tropics, or in the southern hemisphere. It has been observed at what hour of the night, in different seasons, the cross of the south is erect or inclined. It is a time-piece that advances very regularly nearly four minutes a day, and no other group of stars exhibits, to the naked eye, an observation of time so easily made. How often have we heard our guides exclaim in the savannas of Venezuela, or in the desert extending from Lima to Truxillo, 'midnight is past, the cross begins to bend'.' DE HUMBOLDT'S TRAVELS. In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread, The Fern-tree waves o'er me; the fire-fly's red light, But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently burn, Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main, How oft, in their course over oceans unknown, Hath their spirit been cheered by thy light, when the deep As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world,* And to me, as I traverse the world of the west, Shine on! my own land is a far distant spot, But thou to my thoughts art a pure blazing shrine, And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free, WITH A WHITE ROSE, FROM A LOVER OF THE HOUSE OF YORK TO HIS MISTRESS OF THE HOUSE OF LANCASTER. If this pale rose offend thy sight, Go place it in thy bosom fair, And turn Lancastrian there. *Alluding to the Vision of Constantine the Great. R STANZAS. BY J. H. REYNOLDS, ESQ. ― And muttered, lost! lost! lost!' "Tis vain to grieve for what is past, My own mad hand the die hath cast, "Tis vain to grieve-I now can leave The dreadful silence of this night The sweetest fate have I laid waste All that was beautiful and chaste, For me seemed set apart; But I was fashioned to defy Such treasure, so set richly by. How could I give up HER, whose eyes For many a day-when thoughts would rise, Of all my vices !-Memory sees Her eyes' divine remonstrances. A wild and wretched choice was mine, A life of low delight; The midnight rounds of noise and wine, The bitter jest, the wearied glee, To those who plunged me in the throng Of such disastrous joys, Who led me by low craft along, And stunned my mind with noise, I only wish they now could look Upon my life's despoiled book. When midnight finds me torn apart The cold, still, madness of the heart My love is lost;-my studies marred; Yet can I not by day recall My ruined Spirit from its thrall. Peter Corcoran's Memoirs. EPITAPH. SHE lived;-what further can be said She died; what more can be foretold Of all the living, young or old? She lived with death before her eye, As one who did not fear to die; Her dust is here her spirit there- |