Page images

Still my heart remains the same;

Still it doats on youth and beauty;
Still (whate'er their owner's name)

"T is to them I pay my duty;
And where'er their charms I see,
Still their charms have charms for me.

Chide no more then ; for I vow,

If my heart adores a new love,
"Tis because she gives me now

Joys like those I shared with you, love!
Loving her, I still love you,
Hark! she calls me!-Love, adieu!


It was a shrine, a sunny shrine,
On it the statue stood of Love;
Thrice beautiful, as morning's dream
Had brought the image from above.
There many an hour would Beauty kneel,
Adoring at the lovely shrine-
Haunting the statue with one prayer-
“Would thou hadst life! would thou wert mine!”
Wearied, at length, all-pitying heaven
No more the maiden's prayer denied;
Life darkened in the statue's eye,
And warmed the veins, life's crimson tide;
Breath, mortal breath, was on the lip,
And Beauty caught it to her breast;
Alas! the shape had changed to Grief —

Love ever does when once possessed !
Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.


It was a stream in Thessaly; - the banks
Were solitary, for the cypress trees
Closed o'er the waters; yet at times the wind
Threw back the branches, and then a sunbeam
Flung down a golden gift upon the wave,
And shewed its treasures; for the pebbles shone
Like pearls and purple gems, fit emblems they
For the delights that hope holds up to youth,
False in their glittering, and when they lose
The sparkle of the water and the sun,
They are found valueless. It is not thus
With pleasures, when the freshness and the gloss
That young life threw o'er them has dried away!

One only flower grew in that lonely place,
The lily, covered with its shadowy leaves,
Even as some Eastern beauty with her veil;
And like the favourite urns of spring, its bells
Held odours that the zephyrs dared not steal.
And by the river was a maiden leant,
With large dark eyes, whose melancholy light
Seemed as born of deep thought, which had gone through
Full many a stage of human wretchedness,
Had known the anxious misery of love,-
The sickness of the hope which pines and dies
From many disappointments,- and the waste
Of feelings in the gay and lighted hall; –
But more, as knowledge grew more from report,
Than its own sad experience; for she loved
The shelter of the quiet mountain valley,
The shadow of the scented myrtle grove,
And, more than all, the solitary bend,
Hidden by cypresses, of her own river.--

They called the nymph--- RETIREMENT.
Literary Souvenir.

L. E. L.




Whoe'er has been at Coventry, must know

(Unless he 's quite devoid of curiosity), That once a year it has a sort of show,

Conducted with much splendour and pomposity. I'll just describe it, if I can— but no,

It would exhaust the humour of a Fawcett; I
Am a vile jester,—though I once was vain
Of acting Fawcett's parts at Datchet-lane.

Ah! those were pleasant days, when you and I,

Dear Fred Golightly, trod those boards of yore; I often grieve to think that they 're past by, As

you must--on a rainy after-four : Though now its fairly quashed, you wont deny

That that same stage was frequently a bore; It spoiled our cricket, which we're all so proud on, Nor let us beat the Kingsmen—as we've now done.

Oh! sweet is praise to youthful poet's ear,

When gently warbled by the lips he loves; "T is sweet one's exercise read o'er to hear,

(Especially the week before Removes); But sweeter far, when actors first appear,

The loud collision of applauding gloves, The gleam of happy faces o'er them cast Moments of triumph not to be surpast !

Oh! stolen joys, far sweeter for the stealing,

Oh! doubts and fears, and hopes of Eton, all Ye are departed ! but a lingering feeling

Of your enchantments holds my heart in thrall. My eyes just now are fixed upon the ceiling

I feel my cheek flush-hear my inkstand fall;

My soul is wandering through the distant groves
Of that dear schoolboy dwelling which it loves

But to my tale—I'm somewhat given to prating,

I can't but own it; but my theme was fine, And all the feelings which I 've been narrating

Are worth enjoying-and they 've all been mine? But I 'll no longer keep the reader waiting;

So, without wasting now another line,
My poem I'll begin, as poets use,
With a short invocation to my muse.

Spirit which art within me, if in truth

Thou dost exist in my soul's depths, and I Have not mistaken the hot pulse of youth,

And wandering thoughts, for dreams of poesy, Rise from thy lone recesses, rise and soothe

Each meaner thought to aspirations high, Whelm me in musings of deep joy, and roll Thy radiant visions on my kindling soul !

If, when at morn I view the bright blue heaven,

Thoughts are around me which not all have felt; If, in the dim and fading light of even,

A poet's rapture on my soul hath dwelt; If to my wayward nature hath been given

Dreams that absorb, and phantasies that melt, Sweet tears, and wild attachments — lend thy wings, Spirit, to bear me in my wanderings !

But these are boyish dreams,-Away, away,

Ye fond enchantments of my foolish brain ;-
And yet, methinks, I would awhile delay,

my frail vessel tempts life's dangerous main. Still, dear delusions of my boyhood, stay!

Still let me pour my weak, but harmless strain! In fancied draughts my thirst poetic slake, And never, never from that dream awake!

This is a very pretty invocation,

Though scarce adapted to my present style ; I wrote it in a fit of inspiration,

The finest I've enjoyed a monstrous while ; For most uncertain 's my imagination,

And 't is but seldom that my muse will smile. Come, reader, we'll her present humour try; Draw up the curtain — the scene 's Coventry.

It is an ancient and a gallant town,

Nor all unknown to loftier lays than mine; It has of old seen deeds of high renown—

Its situation 's not extremely fine.
Its name it wishes to be handed down,

And still in England's annals longs to shine;
And Mr. Cobbett wants to represent
This self-same Coventry in parliament.

But at the period when my tale commences,

There were no Cobbetts — 't was a barbarous age; The “ Sovereign People" scarce were in their senses,

For Radical Reform was not the rage : Though then Sir Francis * might have found pretences

Just war against the government to wage; For king and nobles thought it no great crime To be confounded tyrants at that time.

There was of yore an Earl of Coventry,

Famous for wine and war-one Leofric; A genuine Saxon-he'd a light blue eye,

His stature tall — his frame well built and thick: His flaxen locks fell down luxuriantly

On his fine shoulders — and his glance was quick. But though he really was a handsome earl, He was at times a most uncommon churl.

He had fought well and often - miles around,

Chieftain and vassal trembled at his name ;

• Wentworth -- not Burdett.

« PreviousContinue »