That the voice was hers whose early death I mourned, I lay Wakeful, the prey of many feverish feelings, My thoughts were of the dead!—At length I slept, If it indeed were sleep.-She stood before me For seldom did I dwell upon the thought; Shedding a tender twilight pensiveness ! What charms were hers who died.-I cannot tell And many were the mockeries of hope; And made the stranger smile with friends, would wake - With which she spoke of Death, gave birth to thoughts, Weak, trembling thoughts, that the lip uttered not! And when she spoke with those, whom most she mourned To leave, and when through clear calm tears the eye Shone with unwonted light, oh! was there not In its rich sparkle something that forbade The fear of Death ?— And when in life's last days Had charactered her countenance, still gleamed Fast fluttering o'er their desolate nest? Mourn not for her who died!-She lived, as saints As sleep steals o'er the senses, unperceived, And the last thoughts that soothed the waking soul Mingle with our sweet dreams.-Mourn not for her! Blackwood's Magazine. THE MICHAELMAS DAISY. LAST Smile of the departing year, Thy sister sweets are flown; Thy pensive wreath is far more dear, For blooming thus alone. Thy tender blush, thy simple frame, But now thou com'st with softer claim, Sweet are the charms in thee we find, "T is thine to call past bloom to mind, BY ARTHUR BROOKE, ESQ. He sleeps in peace at last, He rests to rise no more; And could the ceaseless round of Fate, The breath he scorned, restore, He'd curse the wayward fate that hurled Him back upon this worthless world! Affliction's early chill His best emotions froze, Who lightened half his woes; In friends, to whom his heart was bared, And every inmost feeling shared, He met his deadliest foes. What though he joined the ways of men— Those wounds could never close again! With fevered hand he caught At Joy's bewildering bowl, That preyed upon his soul, Still, still the fruitless cup was drained— The brightest shapes of love In dalliance with the rest; But 't was in vain-with heart unmoved, Through all the paths of bliss he rovedA melancholy jest! There Pleasure smiled, and Beauty shone, His spirit darker grew ; He loathed the light of heaven; That stroke-his heart is riven! STANZAS. BY W. S. WALKER, ESQ. THOU hast left us, dearest Spirit! and left us all alone, But thou thyself to glory and liberty art flown; And the song that tells thy virtues, and mourns thy early doom, Thy place no longer knows thee beside the household hearth, Is more than we would part with, for fortune or for fame. Thy dying gift of love-'t was a light and slender token, And thy parting words of comfort, were few and faintly spoken; But memory must forsake us, and life itself decay, Ere those gifts shall lie forgotten, or those accents pass away. Farewell, our best and fairest! a long, a proud farewell! May those who love thee follow, to the place where thou dost dwell Like the lovely star that led from far the wanderers to their God, May'st thou guide us in the pathway which thy feet in beauty trod. The Etonian. ON THE DEATH OF IN EZ. BY DELTA. 'Tis midnight deep; the full, round moon, Yes, 't is a season and a scene, With stir and strife, may come between But feeling here assumes controul, |