Do good; shun evil; live not thou,
As if at death thy being died;
Nor error's syren voice allow

To draw thy steps from truth aside;
Look to thy journey's end-the grave!
And trust in Him whose arm can save. Δ

Blackwood's Magazine.

STANZAS.

THERE may be poetry without nature, and nature without poetry; that is, a thought may be expressed poetically though it is false, and a thought may be true though not expressed poetically. In the following lines, we believe every sentiment is at once natural and poetic at the same time. There is always great danger in attempting to throw a diviner charm over the beauty of woman, by images drawn from sensible, or inanimate nature; at least few poets have succeeded in the application of such images; but we think the comparison in the last lines, between the "lights gleaming around the brow" of the fair and the summer sky, is both happy and natural.

1.

I knew not that the world contain'd

A form so lovely as thine own;

Nor deem'd that where such beauty reign'd

Humility would fix her throne.

For I had mark'd where eyes were bright,

Too well their owners knew their pow'r, And arm'd them with that dazzling light The sun emits at noon-tide's hour:

Too proud to veil a single ray,
Or one effulgent glance surrender,
And glittering with the blaze of day,
A scorning twilight's softer splendor.

2

I knew not where the form display'd
Such symmetry and grace as thine,
That intellect would lend its aid,
For I had marked where form and face
Had beauty's varied charms combined;
There oft was wanting feeling's grace,-
The beam of soul-the ray of mind.
And vain has been each studied

art,

And futile every cold endeavour-
The light that comes not from the heart,
A moment shines-then fades for ever.
But I, at last, have turned from those
Whom once I knew, to gaze on thee,—
On thee, whose cheek's divinest glows
Reveal thy bosom's purity.

The summer sky is calm-serene-
The summer ocean mildly fair,

As if some bright-some heavenly scene
In beauty were reflected there;

And thus when on thy brow I gaze,
And view the lights around it gleaming,
They seem to be the living rays

From heart, and soul, and spirit beaming.

London Magazine.

E

It would be difficult to point out a fault in the following piece, while the harmony and contrast of images are inimitably beautiful.

ED.

"Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea,

The orange flower perfumes the bower,

The breeze is on the sea.

The lark his lay who trill'd all day,

Sits hush'd his partner nigh;

Breeze, bird, and flower, they know the hour,

But where is County Guy?

"The village maid steals through the shade,

Her shepherd's suit to hear;

To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born cavalier.

The star of love, all stars above,

Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low its influence know,
But where is County Guy?"

FROM THE

FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

THE humour of these lines is not the humour of a Scythian philosopher. It is all over Irish, and we doubt whether it would have been surpassed, had it been genuine Scythian.-ED.

The wise men of Egypt were secret as dummies;

And e'en when they most condescended to teach, They pack'd up their meaning, as they did their mummies,

In so many wrappers, 'twas out of one's reach.

They were also, good people, much given to kings, Fond of monarchs and crocodiles, monkeys and mystery,

Bats, hierophants, blue-bottle flies, and such things,
As will partly appear in this very short history.

A Scythian philosopher, (nephew, they say,
To that other great traveller, young Anacharsis,)
Stept into a temple at Memphis one day,

To have a short peep at their mystical farces.

He saw a brisk blue-bottle fly on an altar,

Made much of, and worshipp'd, as something divine; While a large handsome bullock, led there in a halter, Before it lay stabb'd at the foot of the shrine.

According to Elian, it was in the island of Lencadia they practised this ceremony,-Sven Bour Tais μviais.—De Animal. Lib. ii. cap. 8.

Surpris'd at such doings, he whisper'd his teacher"If 'tisn't impertinent, may I ask, why

Should a bullock, that useful and powerful creature, Be thus offer'd up to a blue-bottle fly?"

"No wonder," said t'other, "you stare at the sight, But we, as a symbol of monarchy view it; That fly on the shrine is legitimate right,

And that bullock, the people, that's sacrificed to it."

I HAVE selected the following Poetic Epistle, from its breathing a feeling at once natural and chaste, a feeling which betrays neither the levity of the coquette, the formality of the prude, the coldness and stiltedness of her whose love is founded in interested motives, nor the unblushing lasciviousness of her who yields to a more unholy passion. Though the feeling, however, is just, the thought, in the second line of the second stanza, is neither true, nor founded in experience. To reflect upon " past delight," is never sorrowful, unless attended with the reflection, that it was a delight purchased at the expense of virtue.-ED.

TO **

Whene'er we part from those we love,
And, faint with sorrow, languish,
How may the troubled heart remove
The pressure of such anguish ?

Reflection can no comfort bring,
For past delight is sorrow;
And hope will close her weary wing,
Long ere the promised morrow.