Of old the residence of merchant-kings;

The fronts of some, though time had shattered them, Still glowing with the richest hues of art,

As though the wealth within them had run o'er.

AN EXTRACT.

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed
The Gypsy's fagot-there we stood and gazed;
Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe,
Her tattered mantle, and her hood of straw;
Her moving lips, her cauldron brimming o'er;
The drowsy brood that on her back she bore;
Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred,
From rifled roost at nightly revel fed;

Whose dark eyes flashed through locks of blackest shade,

When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd:

And heroes fled the Sibyl's muttered call,
Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard-wall.

As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew,

And traced the line of life with searching view, How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears

To learn the color of my future years.

SORROW.

SORROW is uneasiness in the mind, upon the thought of a good lost, which might have been enjoyed longer; or the sense of a present evil. The sharpest and most melting sorrow is that which arises from the loss of those whom we have loved with tenderness.

THE CORAL GROVE.

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The safe and general antidote against sorrow is em. ployment. Whoever will keep his thoughts continually busy, will find himself less affected with irretrievable losses.

Sorrow is a kind of rust to the soul, which every new idea contributes to scour away. It is the putrefaction of stagnant life, and is remedied by exercise and motion.

THE CORAL GROVE.

DEEP in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and glassy brine.
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,
And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow;
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air;

There, with its waving blade of green,

The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen

To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter: There, with a light and easy motion,

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea, And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea.

And life, in rare and beautiful form,

Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe when the wrathful spirit of storms Has made the top of the waves his own: And when the ship from his fury flies,

Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, And demons are waiting the wreck on shore; Then far below in the peaceful sea,

The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, Where the waters murmur tranquilly,

Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

THE VAIN REGRET.

OH! had I mused, when I was young,
The lessons of my father's tongue,
The deep laborious thoughts he drew
From all he saw and others knew,
I might have been-ah, me!
Thrice sager than I e'er shall be-
For what saith Time?
Alas!. he only shows the truth
Of all that I was told in youth!

The thoughts now budding in my brain,-
The wisdom I have bought with pain,—

The knowledge of life's brevity,

False friendship,-false philosophy,
And all that issues out of wo,
Methinks were taught me long ago!

Then what says Time!

Alas! he but brings back the truth

THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

Of all I heard, and lost, in youth!
Truths!-hardly earned and lately brought
From many a far forgotten scene!

Had I but listened as I ought,

To your words sage, serene,

Oh! what might I not have been

In the realms of thought!

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THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

ALONE to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube,

Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er: Oh, whither, she cried, hast thou wandered, my true love,

Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore? What voice have I heard? 't was my Henry that sighed ;

All mournful she hastened, nor wandered she far, When bleeding and low, on the heath, she descried, By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar.

From his bosom that heaved the last torrent was streaming,

And pale was his visage, deep marked with a scar, And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war— How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight! How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war! Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night, To cheer the lone heart of thy wounded Hussar?

Thou shalt live, she replied, heaven's mercy relieving Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn.

Ah! no, the last pang in my bosom is heaving;
No light of the morn shall to Henry return:
Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!

Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!—
His faltering tongue could scarce murmur, adieu !
When he sank in her arms, the poor wounded Hussar.

NONE ARE COMPLETELY HAPPY

So many and so various are the evils incident to human nature, and so frequently are our greatest earthly comforts dashed with alloys of pain and uneasiness, that no state of life, whether of youth or age, of riches or poverty, of grandeur or meanness, is exempt from difficulties and troubles.

To hope for perfect happiness is vain;
Even joy has ever its alloys of pain.

Since, then, an entire and unmixed happiness is not to be expected in our present state, let us not be too sanguine in our wishes to find it here, but place our happiness on things above, and on that state which approaches nearest to it; which is, doing our duty in whatever station God has pleased to place us.

THE GARDEN OF EDEN.

THUS was this place

A happy rural seat of various view;

Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm, Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind, Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true,

If true, here only, and of delicious taste!

Betwixt them, lawns, or level downs, and flocks