We all are deceived by some phantom or other,
Like dreams of the Fairy-land, bright but untrue;
And the fancy we smile to perceive in another,

Only altered in shape, is beguiling us too.

Do not frown at my moral-'t will give you assistance
To keep in your view the true sources of bliss;
The joys that shall light up another existence,
The friendship and love that console us in this.
Literary Magnet.

THEY ARE NO MORE.

BY CHARLES SWAIN, ESQ.

THEY are no more! Oh, dull and drear,
Sound those bereaving, mournful words;
Affliction finds no wilder tear,-
Memory no darker doom records:
Not in our homes, not by our side,
Move the bright beings we deplore;
The hearts which love had sanctified,

They are no more!

O! breathes there one that hath not known

The parting word—the dying look—
While in the soul grief walked alone,

And every pulse with anguish shook :
Some cherished one that blessed him there,
And pastas sunlight from the shore-

Woe! woe! the young-the loved-the fair-
They are no more!

The music of their lips hath fled,
Their grace and beauty passed away;
Yet lives the presence of the dead
Within our souls, as light in day!
A fresher light shall burst the tomb,
And all the blessed lost restore;

Unknown those words of wail and gloom.

They are no more!—

ZARACH.

A PAINTING BY LESLIF.

BEAUTIFUL and radiant May,
Is not this thy festal day?
Is not this spring revelry

Held in honour, queen, of thee?
"Tis a fair; the booths are gay,
With green boughs and quaint display;
Glasses, where the maiden's eye
May her own sweet face espy;
Ribbons for her braided hair;
Beads to grace her bosom fair;
From yon stand the juggler plays
With the rustic crowd's amaze;
There the morris-dancers stand,
Glad bells ringing in each hand;
Here the maypole rears its crest,
With the rose and hawthorn drest;
And beside are painted bands
Of strange beasts from other lands.
In the midst, like the young queen,
Flower-crowned, of the rural green,
Is a bright-cheeked girl-her eye
Blue, like April's morning sky,
With a blush, like that the rose
To her moonlight minstrel shows;
Laughing at her love the while,-
Yet such softness in the smile,
As the sweet coquette would hide
Woman's love by woman's pride.
Farewell, cities; who could bear
All your smoke and all your care,
All your pomp, when wooed away
By the azure hours of May?
Give me woodbine-scented bowers,
Blue wreaths of the violet flowers,

Clear sky, fresh air, sweet birds, and trees,
Sights and sounds and scenes like these!
Literary Gazette.

THE VOICE OF HOME.

TO THE PRODIGAL.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

OH! when wilt thou return

To thy spirit's early loves?
To the freshness of the morn,
To the stillness of the groves?

The summer-birds are calling,
Thy household porch around,
And the merry waters falling,

With sweet laughter in their sound.

And a thousand bright-veined flowers, 'Midst the banks of moss and fern, Breathe of the sunny hours

But when wilt thou return?

Oh! thou hast wandered long

From thy home without a guide, And thy native woodland song

In thine altered heart hath died.

Thou hast flung the wealth away,
And the glory of thy spring,
And to thee the leaves' light play
Is a long-forgotten thing.-

But when wilt thou return?
Sweet dews may freshen soon

The flower, within whose urn
Too fiercely gazed the noon.

O'er the image of the sky,

Which the lake's clear bosom wore,

Darkly may shadows lie—

But not for evermore.

Give back thy heart again
To the gladness of the woods,
To the birds' triumphant strain,
To the mountain solitudes!-

But when wilt thou return?
Along thine own free air,

There are young sweet voices borne-
Oh! should not thine be there?

Still at thy father's board

There is kept a place for thee, And by thy smile restored,

Joy round the hearth shall be.

Still hath thy mother's eye,
Thy coming step to greet,
A look of days gone by,
Tender, and gravely sweet.

Still, when the prayer is said,
For thee kind bosoms yearn,
For thee fond tears are shed-
Oh! when wilt thou return?

BALLAD.

BY CORNELIUS WEBBE.

MARY, when the sun is down,
Steal unnoticed from the town,
Through the dew of daisied green,
Like a shadow dimly seen,

Unto where the lilied rill

Winds around the woody hill,

Giving to thy lover's arms,

Truth, and youth, and sacred charms.

When the night doth darken eve,
Thou thy bower mayst safely leave :-
Thou canst have no dread of night,
Having thoughts as pure as light!
Vice may then not be a-bed,
But the wicked have a dread
Of a chaste-eyed maiden's frown,
That keeps ruder passions down.

When the bat hath tired his wing,
And the cricket ceased to sing,
And the sad, sweet nightingale
'Gins to tell her tender tale;
Steal thy path across the green,
Like a shadow dimly seen,
Or a late-returning dove
Winging lonely to her love.

When the first star of the night
Beams with rays of ruddy light,
(Like the lashes of thine eyes
Startling sleep, that sweetly lies
As the bee upon his bed,
Nestling by a blue-bell's head),
Steal thy way through green and
Silent as the moon doth move.

When the dew is on our feet,

grove,

Then the woodland walk is sweet;
When no eye but heaven's doth sec,
Then 't is sweet with thee to be:
We have passed long hours alone,
Overseen and heard by none;
And may wile a many more,
Till our life, not love, be o'er.