TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN.

Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine:

Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!

I cannot bear to see thee shine.

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that lov'd me true!

I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave,

To roam in climes unkind and new: The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my wither'd heart:-the grave Dark and untimely met my viewAnd all for thee, vile yellow slave!

Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock
A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn,
Now that his frame the lightning shock
Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne?
From love, from friendship, country, torn,

To memory's fond regrets the prey,

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!

CLARE.

MARY LEE.

I HAVE traced the valleys fair
In May morning's dewy air,
My bonny Mary Lee!

Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear,
Gather'd all for thee?

They are not flowers of Pride,

For they graced the dingle-side;

Yet they grew in Heaven's smile,

My gentle Mary Lee!

Can they fear thy frowns the while, Though offered by me?

Here's the lily of the vale,

That perfumed the morning gale,

My fairy Mary Lee!

All so spotless and so pale,

Like thine own purity.
And might I make it known,
"Tis an emblem of my own
Love-if I dare so name

My esteem for thee.

Surely flowers can bear no blame,
My bonny Mary Lee!

MARY LEE.

Here's the violet's modest blue,

That 'neath hawthorns hides from view, My gentle Mary Lee,

Would show whose heart is true,

While it thinks of thee.
While they choose each lowly spot,
The sun disdains them not;

I'm as lowly too, indeed,

My charming Mary Lee;

So I've brought the flowers to plead, And win a smile from thee.

Here's a wild rose just in bud;
Spring's beauty in its hood,
My bonny Mary Lee!
'Tis the first in all the wood

I could find for thee.

Though a blush is scarcely seen,
Yet it hides its worth within,
Like my love; for I've no power,

My angel, Mary Lee,

To speak unless the flower

Can make excuse for me.

Though they deck no princely halls,
In bouquets for glittering balls,

My gentle Mary Lee!

Richer hues than painted walls

Will make them dear to thee;
For the blue and laughing sky
Spreads a grander canopy
Than all wealth's golden skill,

My charming Mary Lee!

Love would make them dearer still,

That offers them to thee.

My wreathed flowers are few,
Yet no fairer drink the dew,
My bonny Mary Lee!
They may seem as trifles too-
Not, I hope, to thee.

Some may boast a richer prize

Under pride and wealth's disguise; None a fonder offering bore

Than this of mine to thee;

And can true love wish for more? Surely not, Mary Lee!

BRAINARD.

SALMON RIVER.

Hic viridis tenera prætexit arundine ripas
Mincius.-VIRGIL.

"TIs a sweet stream-and so, 'tis true, are all That undisturbed, save by the harmless brawl Of mimic rapid or slight waterfall,

Pursue their way

By mossy bank, and darkly waving wood,
By rock, that since the Deluge fixed has stood,
Showing to sun and moon their crisping flood
By night and day.

But yet there's something in its humble rank,
Something in its pure wave and sloping bank,
Where the deer sported, and the young fawn drank
With unscared look:

There's much in its wild history, that teems
With all that's superstitious-and that seems
To match our fancy and eke out our dreams,
In that small brook.

Havoc has been upon its peaceful plain,

And blood has dropped there, like the drops of rain; The corn grows o'er the still graves of the slainAnd many a quiver,