Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade And watch the silver clouds above, Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute, And then at eve, when silence reigns, MELODY. YES, once more that dying strain, Anna, touch thy lute for me; Sweet, when pity's tones complain, Doubly sweet is melody. While the Virtues thus enweave Thus when life hath stolen away, SONG. BY WALLER. A Lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to the Author, and when he returned them to her, she discovered an additional stanza written by him at the bottom of the song here copied. Go, lovely rose ! Tell her, that wastes her time on me, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share, [Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; That Goodness Time's rude hand defies, That Virtue lives when Beauty dies. H. K. WHITE.] THE WANDERING BOY. A SONG. WHEN the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door; eye, The winter is cold, and I have no vest, And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast; Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, But my father and mother were summoned away, And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey; I fled from their rigour with many a sigh, And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy. The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, CANZONET. MAIDEN! wrap thy mantle round thee, All under the tree Thy bed may be, And thou mayst slumber peacefully. Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee; Yet, poor maiden, do not weep; All under the tree, Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully. SONG. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. SOFTLY, softly blow, ye breezes, He lies by the deep, All along where the salt waves sigh. I have covered him with rushes, |