ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF SIDNEY WALLER PLUMB,

A MEDICAL STUDENT,

Who Died at Kingston, Feb. 18th, 1831.-Aged 18.

BY MRS. ANN ROLFE,

" AUTHOR OF THE WILL, OR TWENTY ONE YEARS," &c.

My melancholy muse again must turn,
Oh, once loved youth, to thy unsculptured urn,
With added grief recall the fatal day,

When thy bright spirit winged itself away;

When mourning friends sustained thy drooping head,
And hung with anguish o'er thy dying bed.

Ah! what avails a tender mother's sighs,
Will the dark grave surrender up its prize?
Ah! what avails fond memory's grief and pain,
Can the pale dust in beauty bloom again;
Can joy e'er enter those impervious shades,
Where death supreme each dismal scene invades.
Three years, three fleeting years have hurried by,
Since angels caught thy last convulsive sigh;
Since thy melodious voice was heard to cease,
And thou didst leave this troubled world in peace,
Young as thou wert, thou did'st not start to see
The awful glimpses of eternity!

Can the bright gems, that sport on Flora's vest,
Or golden sheafs that smile on nature's breast;
Can radiant skies, soft lutes, the festive throng,
The rosy landscape, and the pastoral song;
Can the meek primrose, or the violet's bloom,
Recall frail beauty from the silent tomb?

Oh, Death! who reign'st with such despotic power
O'er man supreme, o'er ocean, earth, and flower,
Why didst thou strike, with thy unerring dart,
A lovely youth, with such a noble heart.
Of that distinction, why wert thou so proud,
Why wrapp'd thy costly victim in his shroud?

What treasure now doth thy ambition crave,
Hast thou not gorged the worin-and filled the grave
With youth and loveliness, with rich, and poor,
With valued beings that are seen no more:

Hast thou not seized them 'midst the bloom of health,
And miser-like have rioted in wealth?

Oh, let the youthful to the church-yard stray,
Where numbers rest, once beautiful as they;
Could also boast of that exalted mind,
Which leaves no trace of enmity behind.
High talented, and jocund, prosperous, fair
As lilies that adorn the gay parterre.

But now how chang'd the ruby lip-the brow
That erst to be as fair as alpine snow;

How chang'd those features-and those eyes so bright,
They look'd like crystals filled with eastern light!
How silent is each tongue, how still the breath,
And this, ye lovely, is the work of death!

Though thou art young, there's reason in thy soul,
As there is gravity where planets roll;
Kind providence dispenses good or ill,
As it may please him, and will do so still;
But truth's unvarying aspect is the same,
That if we err, we have ourselves to blame.

THE PASTOR'S STORY;

OR, GIPSEY GIRL.

It was towards the close of a beautiful evening in autumn, that, returning from a visit to a sick neighbour, my attention was attracted, by loud expressions of grief, to a gipsey encampment that skirted the road-side.

Prompted by a better feeling, I trust, than mere curiosity, I approached, and found the whole tribe assembled round a young female, apparently dying. They bad brought her from the tent, in the hope that the open air might re store suspended animation; and, while the loud cries of

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the women, as they beat their breasts, and tore their wild floating locks, betrayed the most extravagant grief, the deep gloom that clouded the stern, yet handsome countenances of the men, showed the sufferer to be an object of no common interest.

She was, I ascertained, the daughter of their chief, the aged patriarch of the little tribe, who, in silent agony, was bending over his dying child. I proffered my assistance, which was neither accepted nor declined. As I approached the sufferer, the last rays of the setting sun gleamed on a face,

"

'As monumental marble pale,"

yet formed in Nature's fairest mould. She was, indeed exquisitely beautiful, yet of an order of beauty totally distinct from that which characterizes the females of her wandering race,

"Whose cheek, of ruddy bronze,

And large black eyes, that flash on you a volley
Of rays that say a thousand things at once,"

while they impress the beholder with admiration, bespeak a mind and frame of equal vigour.

On the contrary, the fair hair which flowed round the pale brow of the invalid, the soft blue eye that half unclosed beneath its long silken lash, and, more than all, the light symmetrical form, that now, attenuated by sickness, seemed scarce earthly, bespoke her ill-adapted to endure the hardships of her wandering lot.

By the use of restoratives, which in my visits to my sick parishioners, I carry with me, the sufferer partially revived, but only to experience an immediate relapse.

I entreated the disconsolate father to allow his dying child to be removed to my parsonage, which was distant scarcely a mile. I shall not soon forget the expression of the old man's countenance, as he replied

"She is now my only child. Though a frail and tender flower, too tender to bear the buffet of my stormy lot, she has never deserted me; and now that she is blighted shall I resign her? No, let me still wear her in my bosom ; ere