BY THE LATE LORD BYRON. 'Tis done! and shivering in the gale, But could I be what I have been, "T is long since I beheld that eye As some lone bird without a mate, I look around, and cannot trace And I will cross the whitening foam, I ne'er shall find a resting place: My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, The poorest, veriest wretch on earth Where friendship's, or love's softer glow, I go! but wheresoe'er I flee To think of every early scene— Of what we are, and what we've been- But mine, alas! has stood the blow, And never truly loves but one! And who that dear, loved one may be I've tried another's fetters, too, With charms, perchance, as fair to view; A kindred care for aught but one! "T would soothe to take one lingering view, BY THE REV. C. H. TOWNSEND. SLEEP, oh! sleep, my dearest one, Thy cheek is pillowed on my arm, I long to view thy beauteous face, To cheer me through the day's long toiling; I love its every change to trace, Shaded by thought-in pleasure smiling: Amid the world, with pride I see All eyes do homage unto thee! But, oh! this hour is most-most dear, I seek my only pleasures here, And fix on thee my every feeling; And, oh! to guard thee thus from ill, Such perfect confidence is shewn In this defenceless hour alone. Sleep,-thou canst not know the love, Which passes all of outward shewing; Much may my looks, words, actions prove, But how much more untold is glowing! And now, in silent loneliness, It passes all I most express. A tender sadness melts my soul, And Memory, with her train attending, Seems all her pages to unroll, While Hope her airy dreams is blending. My tears are sweet; yet see not thou, Lest thou mistake their drops for woe. I think of all I am the while, Of guilt's dark hours, and life all blasted, And thou the only thing to smile, Upon the heart, so widely wasted: But with a thrill of keener pain, A shuddering dread has now o'ercome me, That dries those kindly tears again, Oh! should the future tear thee from me! Ah me, ah me! I hold thee now, Shall I ask ever-where art thou? I cannot call thee back again, Nor o'er again these joys be living, And thousand worlds were pledged in vain, To give what now this hour is giving; But I shall writhe in fruitless woe, pangs which-no, I do not know. With Yet, wherefore thus perversely run I know not why; but lives there one S Whom the wild thought has never crossed, "What should I feel, were this but lost?" Should he now wake, and see my face Some fiend was o'er his pillow bending? Hark! his lips move; and gently frame, Which by those cherub lips is spoken! To know that I his thoughts employ. He feared, that, ere his eyes could close, A weary vigil mine should number; Dear innocent! he little knows How quickly youth shakes hands with slumber : E'en ere my voice had softened, thou Wert in oblivion, deep as now. Now gently I withdraw my arm, Fearful thy quiet sleep of breaking; Thou giv'st no token of alarm, And pleased I see thee not awaking; The taper shaded with my hand, How beautiful in his repose ! The long dark lash the white lid fringing, The rich hair clustering on his brows, And the blue vein his forehead tinging. When to my own near couch I steal, I'll listen still to hear thee breathing, |