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YE are not miss'd, fair flowers, that late were spreading
The summer's glow by fount and dreary grot;

There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding,

The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you not.

Still plays the sparkle o'er the rippling water,

O Lily! whence thy cup of pearl hath gone;
The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daughter,
There is no sorrow in the wind's low tone.

And thou, meek Hyacinth! afar is roving

The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss'd;
Cradled ye were, fair flowers! 'midst all things loving,
A joy to all; yet, yet ye are not miss'd!

Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness,
And the winds fragrance, wandering where they list,—
Oh! it were breathing words too deep in sadness,
To say, Earth's human flowers not more are miss'd!

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These words are all appropriated to music, and will be published separately by

Messrs. Willis and Co.

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Willow! in thy breezy moan

I can hear a deeper tone;

Thro' thy leaves come whispering low
Faint sweet sounds of long ago,—

Willow, sighing willow!

Many a mournful tale of old

Heart-sick love to thee hath told;
Gathering from thy golden bough
Leaves to cool his burning brow,—
Willow, sighing willow!

Many a swan-like song to thee

Hath been sung, thou gentle tree!

Many a lute its last lament

Down thy moonlit stream hath sent,-
Willow, sighing willow!

Therefore, wave and murmur on,
Sigh for sweet Affection gone,

And for tuneful voices fled,

And for Love, whose heart hath bled,
Ever, willow, willow!



Brightly, brightly hast thou fled!
Ere one grief had bow'd thy head,
Brightly didst thou part;

With thy young thoughts free from spot,-
With thy fond love wasted not,-
With thy bounding heart!

Ne'er by sorrow to be wet,

Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet,
Ere by dust o'erspread.

Lilies, ne'er by tempest blown,—
White-rose, which no stain hath known,—
Be about thee shed!

So we give thee to the earth;
And the violet shall have birth
O'er thy gentle head.

Thou, that, like a dew-drop, borne
On a sudden wind of morn,

Brightly thou hast fled!



Sing to me, Gondolier!
Sing words from Tasso's lay;
While pure, and still, and clear,
Night seems but softer day.
The gale is gently falling,
As if it paused to hear
Some strain, the past recalling;—
Sing to me, Gondolier!

Oh! ask me not to wake
Proud spirits of the brave;
Bid no high numbers break
The silence of the wave!
Gone are the noble-hearted,
Closed the bright pageants here;

And the glad song is departed
From the mournful Gondolier!



Oh! tell me not the woods are fair,
Now Spring is on her way;-
Well, well I know how lightly there,
In joy, the young leaves play;
How sweet, on winds of morn or eve,
The violet's breath may be ;-
Yet ask me, woo me not to leave
My lone Rock by the Sea.

The wild wave's thunder on the shore,
The curlew's restless cries,
Are to my watching heart more dear
Than all earth's melodies.

Come back, my ocean rover, come!
There's but one place for me

Till I can greet thy swift sail home-
My lone Rock by the Sea!



Bring from the grove an orange-bough,
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow,
And bind it, mother! on my breast,
When I am laid in dreamless rest.

The myrtle that I loved hath died,
Blighted, like me, in vernal pride!
The rose looks all too festive now,-
Bring from the grove an orange-bough!

The grove along the sunny shore,
Whose odours I must breathe no more,
Oh! love's vain sighs, and parting prayer,
And wild farewell, are lingering there.

Then bear me thence one branch, to shed
Life's last faint sweetness round my bed;
One branch, with pearly blossoms drest,
And bind it, mother! on my breast!



Come to me, gentle Sleep!
I pine, I pine for thee!

Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep,
And set my spirit free!

Each lonely burning thought

In twilight languor steep;

Come to the full heart, long o'erwrought

O gentle, gentle Sleep!

Come with thine urn of dew,

Sleep, gentle Sleep!-but bring
No voice, love's yearnings to renew,
No visions on thy wing!

Come, as to folding flowers,

To birds, in forests deep ;

Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours,
O gentle, gentle Sleep!



Leave me not yet!-thro' rosy skies from far,
But now the song-birds to their nests return;
The trembling image of the first pale star
On the dim lake but now begins to burn:
-Leave me not yet!

Not yet!-low voices borne from hidden streams,
Heard through the shivery woods, but now arise;
Their sweet sounds mingle not with daylight dreams,
They are of vesper's hymns and harmonies :

-Leave me not yet!

My thoughts are like those gentle tones, dear love!
By day shut up in their own still recess,
They wait for dews on earth, for stars above,
Then to breathe out their voice of tenderness:
-Leave me not yet!



[IT has been justly remarked, by an accomplished Edinburgh Professor, himself one of the most successful chroniclers of the day, that the practice of medicine is a mine full of interesting and important matter, highly valuable to the periodical writer, but hitherto little explored by him. The incidents related in the ensuing pages are gleaned from the writer's own practice, and are entirely founded in fact; although in narrating them he has scrupulously endeavoured to avoid fixing the identity of the parties, in all instances where his doing so could have been in any way construed into a breach of professional confidence.]


Ir was towards the close of the day, in the summer of the year 18—, which I passed at Naples, that I was requested, by a British merchant residing in that city to visit the master of a vessel consigned to him, who had been attacked with indisposition. The day was sultry hot, accompanied by the scirocco which passes over from the burning sands of Africa, bearing with it numberless saline and acrid particles, which occasioned the most oppressive and uneasy sensations; towards its close, however, a breeze had sprung up from the land, which rendered the air somewhat cooler, though it occasioned but little agitation of the clear, blue, and tideless waters of the bay. The prospect at this moment, as I rode slowly along the Chiaja, was so delightful, that, I fear, no description I could give would do justice to it. The broad disk of the sun was just sinking into the wave, and exhibited, in mellowed and harmonious traits, the different features of the prospect, gilding with its last rays the dark outline of the Castle of St. Elmo, which crowns the summit of the high amphitheatre of hills surrounding the city, and which are themselves surmounted in the distance by the snow-capped heads of the Apennines. From the castle and down to the Chiaja, the precipitous descent was covered with vineyards and orangeries, which afforded a delicate and perfect relief to the town which reposed beneath them. In front of the Chiaja, and extending its whole length, were the gardens of the Villa Reale, laid out with the most exquisite taste, and exhibiting in their walks some of the most splendid specimens of ancient sculpture; such as the celebrated group of the Toro Farnese, which represents Amphion and Zethus, the sons of Lycus, King of Thebes, tying Dirce by the hair of her head to the horns of a bull. And lastly came the Bay itself, extending, with its broad, glassy, and transparent surface, for a circuit of thirty miles, bound in on the right by the promontory of Pausilippo, on which stands the wild tomb of the poet Virgil, and on the left by the promontory of Sorrento, anciently called Syrentum, from its enchanting situation, where stands, built upon a cliff, the paternal mansion of another celebrated poet, Torquato Tasso; whilst in the centre, and about midway between the two promontories, rose the huge island of Caprea, which acted like an enormous mole, breaking the force of the sea, and rendering this large portion of the Mediterranean as tran

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