Night is the time for care; Brooding on hours mis-spent, Like Brutus midst his slumbering host Night is the time to muse; Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and with expanding views, Beyond the starry pole; Descries, athwart the abyss of night, The dawn of uncreated light. Night is the time to pray ; Our Saviour oft withdrew So will his follower do; Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, Night is the time for death; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, Think of heaven's bliss and give the sign Ackermann's 'Forget Me Not.' FROM THE ARABIC. THE morn that ushered thee to life, my child, Oh may'st thou smile, whilst all around thee weep. E. E ODE, BY LORD BYRON. Он, shame to thee, Land of the Gaul! A mockery that never shall die; And proud o'er thy ruin, for ever be hurled Oh, where is thy spirit of yore, The spirit that breathed in thy dead, For where is the glory they left thee in trust ?— Go look through the kingdoms of earth, And something of goodness, of honour, and worth, But thou art alone in thy shame! The world cannot liken thee there; Abhorrence and vice have disfigured thy name Beyond the low reach of compare; Stupendous in guilt, thou shalt lend us, through time, A proverb, a bye-word, for treachery and crime. While conquest illumined his sword, Thy praises still followed the steps of thy Lord, And withered the nations afar, Yet bright in thy view was that Despot's renown, Then, back from the Chieftain thou slunkest away- Forgot were the feats he had done, The toils he had borne in thy cause; Thou turnedst to worship a new rising sun, And to waft other songs of applause; But the storm was beginning to lour,— Adversity clouded his beam; Then honour and faith were the boast of an hour, And loyalty's self but a dream; To him thou hadst banished thy vows were restored, And the first that had scoffed, were the first that adored. What tumult thus burthens the air! What throng thus encircles his throne? "Tis the shout of delight;-'tis the millions that swear And the world that pursues him shall mournfully feel That Frenchmen will breathe when their hearts are on fire, For the Hero they love, and the Chief they admire. Their hero has rushed to the field, His laurels are covered with shade, But where is the spirit that never should yield, The loyalty never to fade! In a moment desertion and guile The dastards that flourished and grew in his smile, And the millions that swore they would perish to save, The savage, all wild in his glen, Is nobler and better than thou! At once from thy arms would I sever; And thinking of thee in my long after-years, Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul! Oh, shame to thy children and thee! A mockery that never shall die: And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurled The laughter of Triumph, the jeers of the World. A FRAGMENT. Do any thing but love; or, if thou lovest, Literary Gazette. L. E. L. THE PARTING. BY THE REV. G. CROLY. THE wind was wild, the sea was dark, All there was still.-The shouts had past, Then swept the circle of the hill, |