And then deep madness o'er the mourner came—
With maniac force, he sought from out its bed
To tear the rock which closed the tomb, and claim
His victim-with that wrench his spirit fled.
London Magazine.
My sweet little cherub, how calm thou 'rt reposing;
Thy suffering is over, thy mild eye is closing;
This world hath proved to thee a step-dame unfriendly;
But rest thee, my babe, there's a spirit within thee.
A mystery thou art, though unblest and unshriven—
A thing of the earth, and a radiance of heaven;
A flower of the one, thou art fading and dying-
A spark of the other, thou art mounting and flying.
Farewell my sweet baby, too early we sever;
I may come to thee, but to me thou shalt never.
Some angel of mercy shall lead and restore thee,
A pure living flame, to the mansions of glory.
The moralist's boast may sound prouder and prouder,
The hypocrite's prayer rise louder and louder;
But I'll trust my babe, in her trial of danger,
To the mercy of Him that was laid in the manger.
Literary Souvenir.
BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.
SPRING flowers, spring birds, spring breezes
Are felt, and heard, and seen;
Light trembling transport seizes
My heart, with sighs between;
These old enchantments fill the mind
With scenes and seasons left behind ;-
Childhood, its smiles and tears,-
Youth, with its flush of years,
Its morning clouds and dewy prime,
More exquisitely tinged by time!
Fancies again are springing,
Like May-flowers in the vales;
While hopes long lost, are singing,
From thorns, like nightingales;
And kindly spirits stir my blood,
Like vernal airs that curl the flood:
There falls to manhood's lot,
A joy which youth has not,
A dream more beautiful than truth,
Returning spring,-renewing youth!
Thus sweetly to surrender
The present for the past,
In sprightly mood yet tender,
Life's burthen down to cast,—
This is to taste, from stage to stage,
Youth, or the lees refined of age;
Like wine well kept and long,
Heady, nor harsh, nor strong;-
A richer, purer, mellower draught
With every annual cup is quaffed.
Literary Souvenir.
THE LOVER'S FAREWELL TO HIS LYRE.
My soul is calm, my bosom bright,
With sunshine such as ne'er till now
Rose to chase off the dreary night,
That gathered round my moody brow;
O long-loved tears! O cherished grief!
O, dear frequented glooms that wore
So sweet a guise! your wild relief
I need no more!
No tuneful fiction of the brain
Wert thou to me, pale-eyed Despair!
So long I bent beneath thy chain,
Its weight at length seemed light to bear.
But now thine adamantine mace
Is broke, thy drear dominion o'er;
Good bye! thy scorn of female grace
I need no more!
Oft, very oft, when Memory stung
My heart to agony, I flew
To fiction's tales, and o'er them hung,
Till Fancy half believed them true;
But Love now lends me sweeter themes
And thoughts by far, whereon to pore;
Good-bye, Romance, thy charmed dreams
I need no more!
Sweet summer flowers! your cultured blooms
Have many an hour my cares beguiled,
Till, soothed by your divine perfumes,
I've kissed your rosy cheeks, and smiled;
But now with Hope my bosom beats,
To win a flower, all flowers before,
Good-bye! your tributary sweets
I need no more!
And thou, my friend, from first to last,
Through good and ill, in weal and woe,
Brightener and soother of the past,
With all thy laurels round thee, go!
I've loved thee much; but now, my lyre,
What, if thy fascination 's o'er?
And what, if, late eclipsed, thy fire
I need no more?
Canst thou repine if dust devour
Thy strings, left motionless and mute, When, touched by hands of dearer power, My heart is grown the sweeter lute!
Thou 'st won me fame-thou 'st won me praise; Take these my aspirations soar
Loftier than this-thy trumpet lays
Did e'er thy voice, when most it tried,
Win me one sigh-I say not tear,
From her I loved! Go to! the pride
Of song has cost thy master dear.
If praise, if fame's the only meed
Of all my love, of all thy lore,
Farewell! thy blandishments I need
No more, no more!
No! still, if still my lady's glance
Chide not the vision I pursue,
In such delighted chase, romance,
Flower, lute, and music, all adieu!
But come, young Joy, lead on the hour,
When love shall say, thy reign is o'er;
Good-bye, dear Hope, thy soothing power
I need no more!
"It is not painful, Pætus."
HER form-it is not of the sky,
Nor yet her sex above;
Her eye-it is a woman's eye,
And bright with woman's love ;—
Nor look, nor tone revealeth aught
Save woman's quietness of thought:
And yet around her is a light
Of inward majesty and might!
Her lord is fettered by her side,
In soul and strength subdued;
Yet looks she on him with a pride
Fonder than when she viewed
His mailed form in the brightest hour
Of victory, applause, and power!
When Fortune beamed upon his brow,
She loved not as she loveth now.
They tore him from his home ;—she rose
A midnight sea to brave;
She stood beside him when his foes
Were fiercer than the wave;
And now she is beside him here,
A prisoner in a dungeon drear,
Still calm as when before she strove;
Still strong in woman's strength-her love.
She loved as Roman matron should,
Her hero's spotless name;
She would have calmly seen his blood
Flow on the field of fame;
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