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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 ;
But now its light must hence depart,

That beam no more can warm.

No more thy smile around me plays,

And darkness turns to light -
As soon might yon dull meteor-blaze

Dispel the gloom of night.

That rosy smile, to others given,

My heart esteems no more;
Its hue, pure as the blush of heaven,

No power can e'er restore.

It falls upon my withered breast,

But cannot cheer it now;
The fondest love we once confessed,

Now leaves no quickening glow.

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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,
No
power

had torn-as now I do-
Their image from my

breast.

But thou art false—inconstant thou

The rest I need not tell ;
Another's arms await 'me now-

For ever fare thee well!
Literary Gazette.

FORGET THEE?

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

blue;

Forget each old familiar face, each long-remembered spot ;
When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot!
Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and fancy-free;
For, God forbid, thy gladsome heart should grow less glad for me;
Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh, bid not mine to rove,
But let it muse its humble faith, and uncomplaining love;
If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not,
Forget me then; but ne'er believe, that thou canst be forgot!

Friendship's Offering.

THE DISTANT SHIP.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

The sea-bird's wing, o'er ocean's breast,

Shoots like a glancing star,
While the red radiance of the west

Spreads kindling fast and far;
And yet that splendour wins thee not, -

Thy still and thoughtful eye
Dwells but on one dark, distant spot

Of all the main and sky.

Look round thee !-o'er the slumbering deep

A solemn glory broods ;
A fire hath touched the beacon-steep,

And all the golden woods :
A thousand gorgeous clouds on high

Burn with the amber light ;-
What spell, from that rich pageantry,

Chains down thy gazing sight?

A chastening thought of human cares,

A feeling, linked to earth!
Is not yon speck a bark, which bears

The loved of many a hearth ?
Oh! do not hope, and grief, and fear,

Crowd her frail world even now,
And manhood's prayer, and woman's tear,

Follow her venturous prow?

Bright are the floating clouds above,

The glittering seas below;
But we are bound by cords of love

To kindred weal and woe!
Therefore, amidst this wide array

Of glorious things and fair,
My soul is on that bark's lone way,

For human hearts are there.
Literary Souvenir.

We met not in the sylvan scene

Where lovers wish to meet,
Where skies are bright, and woods are green,

And opening blossoms sweet;
But in the city's busy din,

Where Mammon holds his reign,
Sweet intercourse we sought to win

'Mid traffic, toil, and gain :
Above us was a murky sky,

Around, a crowded space,
Yet dear, my love, to thou and I,

Was this—our Trysting-Place.

We dwelt not on the linnet's note,

Or skylark's warbling lay;
We heard not murmuring zephyrs float

Upon the dewy spray ;
But sounds of discord met our ear,

The taunt but ill represt,
The miser's cold and cautious sneer,

The spendthrift's reckless jest;
Yet while we heard each other's tone,

And viewed each other's face,
We seemed sequestered and alone

In this our Trysting-Place.

They err, who say Love only dwells

'Mid sunshine, light, and flowers;
Alike to him are gloomy cells,

Or gay and smiling bowers :
Love wastes not on insensate things

His sweet and magic art,
No outward sign arrests his wings,

His home is in the heart;
And, dearest, hearts like thine and mine

With rapture must retrace,
How often Love has deigned to smile

On this our Trysting-Place.
New Monthly Magazine.

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.

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