9

And now, ere the year shall depart
Oh! let me surrender to thee,

The throne of a penitent heart.

TO LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WARS.

We are not able to assign the following stanzas to their proper author, but notwithstanding the affectation which pervades them, we think they will give pleasure to every lover of poetry. Some ladies may carp at the conclusion, but it is sound logic.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde,

That from the nunnerie

Of thy chaste breast, and quiet minde,
Το warre and armes I flie.

True, a new mistresse now I chase,
The first foe in the fielde;

And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore;

I could not love thee, deare, so much,
Lov'd I not honour more.

HOPE DEFERRED.

BRIMFUL of bliss, the goblet flow'd,
"Twas lifted to the very lip;
With hope the thirsty bosom glow'd
And the bow'd head bent to sip.

But envious Fortune dash'd away
The mantling promise of delight:
O'erclouded was the genial ray,

And the sweet dream was put to flight.

O Mary! is the goblet gone

The draught for ever cast away?

Or is it but awhile withdrawn,

To come more sweeten'd by delay?

Yes, Mary, yes that speaking eye
Tells me the cup again shall flow:
And bless'd occasion shall supply

The mutual bliss we pant to know,

SAPPHICS.

Fast by thy stream, O Babylon, reclining,
Wo-begone exile, to the gale of evening
Only responsive, my forsaken harp I

Hang on the willow.

Gush'd the big tear-drops, as my soul remembered
Zion, thy mountain paradise, my country!
When the fierce bands Assyrian, who led us
Captive from Salem,

Claim'd, in our mournful bitterness of anguish,
Songs and unseason'd madrigals of joyance;
"Sing the sweet-tempered carol that ye wont to
Warble in Zion.”

Dumb be my tuneful eloquence, if ever

Strange echoes answer to a song of Zion:

Blasted this right hand if I should forget thee,

Land of my fathers.

The following specimen of an English song without a sibilant, will prove that this uncouthly harshness may be avoided.

No-not the eye of tender blue,

Tho' Mary 'twere the tint of thine;

Or breathing lip of glowing hue,
Might bid the opening bud repine

Had long enthrall'd my mind:

Nor tint with tint, alternate aiding
That o'er the dimpled tablet flow,

The vermile to the lily fading;

Nor ringlet bright with orient glow
In many a tendril 'twin'd,

The breathing tint, a beaming ray,
The linear harmony divine,
That o'er the form of beauty play,
Might warm a colder heart than mine,
But not forever bind.

But when to radiant form and feature,
Internal worth and feature join
With temper mild and gay good nature,
Around the willing heart, they twine
The empire of the mind.

DOMESTIC COMFORTS.

Some like to be seated to hear a good play,

And some a sweet concert delight to attend, Some count with their feet the swift moments away,

And some join the fire with a true-hearted friend; In the leisure of evening, the break of the morn,

When the birds are in song and the hounds are awake, Some follow alertly the sound of the horn,

And others secluded excursions will make.

We have heard the old toper sing tipsily home,

Seen the beau, like a moth, fondly trifling with light; We have watch'd the wild fugitive franticly roam, And view'd the full shallop receding from sight: Thus, all to their taste for a passage of mirth,

To assist them through life and be socially free, But my choice, my pursuit, my enjoyment on earth,

With my wife and my children, are dearest to me.

Like the vine that is cultured, the bee that is hiv'd,
The flowers that are tended by tender control,
Our state is so aptly, so dearly contriv'd,

The seasons in placidness over us roll;

Old bachelors laugh and shrewd maidens avow

To be wed is dependence, or lottery, at best; They may laugh and may shun, but for me, I allow, I am peacefully gay and contentedly blest.

LORD BYRON.

THIS Poet says he cannot make,
His devil like a gownsman speak;
But Lucifer, 'tis very plain,

Speaks for himself in Byron's "Cain."

CAIN.

DESPAIRING, Stigmatized by Heaven's own hand,
The first Assassin roamed from land to land;
And yet this murderer, by indulgent Heaven,
Had space for sorrow and repentance given:
Not such the fate, Oh Byron! of that Cain,
The monstrous offspring of thy guilty brain;
Him the just sense of all who think or feel,
Has damn'd, without redemption or appeal.