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CHILDE HAROLD'S LAST PILGRIMAGE.

BY THE REV. W. LISLE BOWLES.

So ends Childe Harold his last Pilgrimage!-
Above the Malian surge he stood, and cried
“ Liberty!” and the shores, from age to age
Renowned, and Sparta's woods and rocks, replied
“ Liberty !” But a spectre, at his side,
Stood mocking; -and its dart uplifting high,
Smote him :- he sank to earth in life's fair pride:

Sparta! thy rocks echoed another cry,
And old Ilissus sighed —“ Die, generous exile, die!"

I will not ask sad Pity to deplore
His wayward errors, who thus early died :
Still less, Childe Harold, now thou art no more,
Will I say aught of genius misapplied,
Of the past shadows of thy spleen or pride :--
But I will bid the' Arcadian cypress wave,
Pluck the green laurel from Peneus' side,

And pray thy spirit may such quiet have,
That not one thought unkind be murmured o'er thy grave.

So ends Childe Harold his last Pilgrimage!-
Ends in that region — in that land renowned,
Whose mighty genius lives in Glory's page,
And on the Muses' consecrated ground, -
His pale cheek fading where his brows were bound
With their unfading wreath! I will not call
The nymphs from Pindus' piny shades profound;

But strew some flowers upon thy sable pall,
And follow to the grave a Briton's funeral.

Slow move the plumed hearse, the mourning train;
I mark the long procession with a sigh,
Silently passing to that village fane
Where, Harold, thy forefathers mouldering lie; --
Where sleeps that mother, who with tearful eye,
Pondering the fortunes of thy onward road,
Hung o'er the slumbers of thine infancy;

Who here, released from every human load,
Receives her long-lost child to the same calm abode.

Bursting Death's silence -- could that mother speak,
When first the earth is heaped upon thy head,
In thrilling, but with hollow accent weak,
She thus might give the welcome of the dead :-
“ Here rest my son with me; - the dream is filed ;-
The motley mask and the great coil are o'er :
Welcome to me, and to this wormy bed,

Where deep forgetfulness succeeds the roar
Of earth, and fretting passions waste the heart no more.

“ Here rest! - On all thy wanderings peace repose,
After the fever of thy toilsome way;
No interruption this long silence knows;
Here no vain phantoms lead the soul astray:
The earth-worm feeds on his unconscious prey;
Here both shall sleep in peace, till earth and sea
Give up their dead ;-at that last awful day,

King, Lord, Almighty Judge! remember me ;

And may Heaven's mercy rest, my erring child, on thee!” Literary Souvenir.

STANZAS.

I never cast a flower away,

The gift of one who cared for me;
A little flower-a faded flower,

But it was done reluctantly.

I never looked a last adieu

To things familiar, but my heart
Shrank with a feeling, almost pain,

Even from their lifelessness to part.

I never spoke the word “ Farewell!"

But with an utterance faint and broken;
An earth-sick yearning for the time,

When it shall never more be spoken.
Blachwood's Magazine.

There was a time when I could feel

All passion's hopes and fears;
And tell what tongues can ne'er reveal,

By smiles, and sighs, and tears !
The days are gone! no more, no more,

The cruel fates allow;
And, though I'm hardly twenty-four, -
I'm not a lover now!

Lady, the mist is on my sight;

The chill is on my brow;
My day is night, my bloom is blight;

I'm not a lover now!

I never talk about the clouds,

I laugh at girls and boys;
I'm growing rather fond of crowds,

And very fond of noise ;
I never wander forth alone

Upon the mountain's brow;
I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone !

I'm not a lover now!

I never wish to raise a veil,

I never raise a sigh ;
I never tell a tender tale,

I never tell a lie ;
I cannot kneel as once I did;

I've quite forgot my bow;
I never do as I am bid, -

I'm not a lover now!

I make strange blunders every day,

If I would be gallant;
Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey,

And nieces for their aunt:
I fly from folly, though it flows

From lips of loveliest glow;
I don't object to length of nose,

I'm not a lover now!

The Muse's steed is very fleet,

I'd rather ride my mare;
The Poet hunts a quaint conceit,-

I'd rather hunt a hare;
I've learnt to utter yours and you,

Instead of thine and thou;
And, oh! I can't endure a Blue !-

I'm not a lover now!

I find my Ovid very dry,

My Petrarch quite a pill; Cut Fancy for Philosophy,

Tom Moore for Mr. Mill:
And Belles may read, and Beaux may write,

I care not who or how;
I burnt my Album Sunday night;-

I'm not a lover now!

I don't encourage idle dreams

Of poison or of ropes ;
I cannot dine on airy schemes,

I cannot sup on hopes :
New milk, I own, is very fine,

Just foaming from the cow;
But, yet, I want my pint of wine :-

I'm not a lover now!

When Laura sings young hearts away,

I'm deafer than the deep;
When Leonora goes to play,

I sometimes go to sleep;
When Mary draws her white gloves out,

I never dance, I vow;
“ Too hot to kick one's heels about!"

I'm not a lover now!

I'm busy now with state affairs,

I prate of Pitt and Fox;
I ask the price of rail-road shares,

I watch the turns of stocks:

And this is life! no verdure blooms

Upon the withered bough,
I save a fortune in perfumes;

I'm not a lover now!

I may be, yet, what others are,

A boudoir's babbling fool ;
The flattered star of Bench or Bar,

A party's chief or tool;
Come shower or sunshine,-hope or fear,-

The palace or the plough,
My heart and lute are broken here ;
I'm not a lover now!

Lady, the mist is on my sight,

The chill is on my brow;
My day is night, my bloom is blight;

I'm not a lover now !
Friendship's Offering.

THE HOUR OF PHANTASY.

BY ISMAEL FITZADAM.

There is an hour when all our past pursuits,
The dreams and passions of our early day,–
The unripe blessedness that dropped away
From our young tree of life,-like blasted fruits,
All rush upon the soul : some beauteous form
Of one we loved and lost; or dying tone,
Haunting the heart with music that has flown,
Still lingers near us, with an awful charm!
I love that hour,—for it is deeply fraught
With images of things no more to be;
Visions of hope, and pleasure madly sought,
And sweeter dreams of love and purity ;-
The poesy of heart, that smiled in pain,

And all my boyhood worshipped—but vain!
Literary Souvenir.

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