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BY JOHN ROBY, ESQ.
When first I knew thee, still too dear,
I fondly loved thee too; Apparent worth, a heart sincere,
Made me believe thee true.
Each cheering smile thy cheek had worn,
Then lingered but for me ; But now the mask's thrown off,- 1 scorn
To waste one thought on thee.
Thine image once came o'er my heart
Like sunshine 'mid the storm ;
That beam no more can warm.
No more thy smile around me plays,
And darkness turns to light -
Dispel the gloom of night.
That rosy smile, to others given,
My heart esteems no more;
No power can e'er restore.
It falls upon my withered breast,
But cannot cheer it now;
Now leaves no quickening glow.
Passion's wild burst — the stormy brow,
Their wrath I'd sooner brave, Than sunny smiles that mock my woe,
Like flowers that deck the grave.
Oh, hadst thou still to me been true,
As once thy lips confessed,
had torn-as now I do-
But thou art false—inconstant thou
The rest I need not tell ;
For ever fare thee well!
BY THE REV. JOHN MOULTRIE.
“ Forget thee?"-If to dream by night, and muse on thee by
day; If all the worship, deep and wild, a poet's heart can pay; If tears in absence, breathed for thee to heaven's protecting
power; If winged thoughts that flit to thee - a thousand in an hour; If busy Fancy blending thee with all my future lot; If this thou call'st “forgetting,” thou, indeed, shalt be forgot! “Forget thee?”—Bid the forest-birds forget their sweetest tune! “Forget thee?”—Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the moon; Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's refreshing dew; Thyself forget thine “own dear land," and its mountains wild and
Forget each old familiar face, each long-remembered spot ;
THE DISTANT SHIP.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
The sea-bird's wing, o'er ocean's breast,
Shoots like a glancing star,
Spreads kindling fast and far;
Thy still and thoughtful eye
Of all the main and sky.
Look round thee !-o'er the slumbering deep
A solemn glory broods ;
And all the golden woods :
Burn with the amber light ;-
Chains down thy gazing sight?
A chastening thought of human cares,
A feeling, linked to earth!
The loved of many a hearth ?
Crowd her frail world even now,
Follow her venturous prow?
Bright are the floating clouds above,
The glittering seas below;
To kindred weal and woe!
Of glorious things and fair,
For human hearts are there.
We met not in the sylvan scene
Where lovers wish to meet,
And opening blossoms sweet;
Where Mammon holds his reign,
'Mid traffic, toil, and gain :
Around, a crowded space,
Was this—our Trysting-Place.
We dwelt not on the linnet's note,
Or skylark's warbling lay;
Upon the dewy spray ;
The taunt but ill represt,
The spendthrift's reckless jest;
And viewed each other's face,
In this our Trysting-Place.
They err, who say Love only dwells
'Mid sunshine, light, and flowers;
Or gay and smiling bowers :
His sweet and magic art,
His home is in the heart;
With rapture must retrace,
On this our Trysting-Place.
Silent and dark as the source of yon river,
Whose birth-place we know not, and seek not to know, Though wild as the flight of the shaft from yon quiver,
Is the course of its waves as in music they flow.
The lily flings o'er it its silver-white blossom,
Like ivory barks which a fairy hath made ; The rose o'er it bends with its beautiful bosom,
As though it were enamoured itself of its shade.
The sunshine, like Hope, in its noontide hour slumbers
On the stream, as it loved the bright place of its rest, And its waves pass in song, as the sea shells' soft numbers
Had given to those waters their sweetest and best.
The banks that surround it are flower-dropt and sunny;
There the first birth of violets' odour-showers weepThere the bee heaps his earliest treasure of honey,
Or sinks in the depths of the harebell to sleep.
Like prisoners escaped during night from their prison,
The waters fling gaily their spray to the sun; Who can tell me from whence that glad river has risen?
Who can say whence it springs in its beauty?—not one.
Oh, my heart, and my song, which is my heart's flowing,
Read thy fate in yon river, for such is thine own; 'Mid those the chief praise on thy music bestowing,
Who cares for the lips from whence issue the tone ?
Dark as its birth-place, so dark is my spirit,
Whence yet the sweet waters of melody came: "T is the long after-course, not the source, will inherit
The beauty and glory of sunshine and fame. Literary Souvenir.
L. E. L.