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ALARIC A. WATTS.

A WOMAN'S FAREWELL. FARE THEE WELL!—'Tis meet we part,

Since other ties and hopes are thine ; Pride that can nerve the lowliest heart

Will surely strengthen mine! Yes ; I will wipe my tears away,

Repress each struggling sigh, Call back the thoughts thou led'st astray,

Then lay me down and die !

Fare thee well !—I'll not upbraid

Thy fickleness or falsehood now ;
Can the wild taunts of love betray'd

Repair one broken vow ?
But if reproach may wake regret

In one so false or weak,
Think what I was—when first we met-

And read it on my cheek.

Fare thee well !-On yonder tree

One leaf is fluttering to the blast,
Wither'd and serema type of me-

For I shall fade as fast!
Whilst many a refuge still hast thou,

Thy wandering heart to save
From the keen pangs that wring mine now,

I have but one-the Grave !

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

ARRIA.

It is not painful, Pætus.'
Her form it is not of the sky,

Nor yet her sex above;
Her eye it is a woman's eye,

And bright with woman's love.
Nor look, nor tone, revealeth aught,
Save woman's quietness of thought ;
And yet around her is a light
Of inward majesty and might.

She loved, as Roman matron should,

Her hero's spotless name;
She would have calmly seen his blood

Flow on the field of fame;
But could not bear to have him die
The sport of each plebeian eye;
To see his stately neck bow'd low
Beneath the headsman's dastard blow.

She brought to him his own bright brand,

She bent a suppliant knee,

And bade him, by his own right hand,

Die freeman 'mid the free.
In vain—the Roman fire was cold
Within the fallen warrior's mould:
Then rose the wife and woman high,
And died to teach him how to die !

It is not painful, Pætus.”-Ay!

Such words would Arria say,
And view, with an unalter'd eye,

Her life-blood ebb away.
Professor of a purer creed,
Nor scorn nor yet condemn the deed,
Which proved, unaided from above,
The deep reality of love.

Ages since then have swept along ;

Arria is but a name ;-
Yet still is woman's love as strong-

Still woman's soul the same,
Still sooths the mother and the wife
Her cherish'd ones ’mid care and strife.
" It is not painful, Pætus”-still
Is love's word in the hour of ill. M. J. J.

A FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND. Our native land-our native vale,

A long and last adieu ; Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,

And Cheviot-mountains blue !

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,

And streams renown'd in song ;

Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads,

Our hearts have loved so long.

Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes,

Where thyme and harebells grow; Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes

O’erhung with birk and sloe.

The battle-mound-the Border-tower,

That Scotia's annals tell ; -
The martyr's grave--the lover's bower

To each—to all-farewell !

Home of our hearts !-our father's homes

Land of the brave and free ! The sail is flapping on the foam

That bears us far from thee!

We seek a wild and distant shore

Beyond the Atlantic main ; We leave thee to return no more,

Nor view thy cliffs again !

But may dishonour blight our fame,

And quench our household fires, When we, or ours, forget thy name,

Green island of our sires.

Our native land our native vale

A long, a last adieu ;-
Farewell, to bonny Teviotdale,
And Scotland's mountains blue.

PRINGLE.

FROM BISHOP HEBER'S JOURNAL. IF thou wert by my side, my love !

How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,

Listening the nightingale !

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I miss thee at the dawning grey,

When on our deck reclined, In careless ease my limbs I lay,

And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream

My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam

I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,

The lingering noon to cheer, But miss thy kind approving eye,

Thy meek attentive ear.

But when of morn or eve the star

Beholds me on my knee,
I feel, though thou art distant far,

Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on! then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still,

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