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Within her eyes, upon her brow,
Lay something softer, fonder, deeper,
As if in dreams some visioned woe
Had broke the Elysium of the sleeper.

I saw her thrice-Fate's dark decree
In widow's garments had arrayed her
Yet beautiful she seemed to be

As even my reveries portrayed her:
The glow, the glance had passed away,
The sunshine, and the sparkling glitter;
Still, though I noted pale decay,

The retrospect was scarcely bitter;
For, in their place a calmness dwelt,
Serene, subduing, soothing, holy;
In feeling which, the bosom felt

That every louder mirth is folly-
A pensiveness-which is not grief,

A stillness -as of sunset streaming

A fairy glow on flower and leaf,

Till earth looks like a landscape, dreaming.

A last time and unmoved she lay,
Beyond life's dim, uncertain river,
A glorious mould of fading clay,

From whence the spark had fled for ever!
I gazed-my heart was like to burst —
And, as I thought of years departed,

The years wherein I saw her first,

When she, a girl, was lightsome-hearted ;And, when I mused on later days,

As moved she in her matron duty,

A happy mother, in the blaze

Of ripened hope, and sunny beauty,—

I felt the chill-I turned aside

Bleak Desolation's cloud came o'er me,

And Being seemed a troubled tide,

Whose wrecks in darkness swam before me!

Blackwood's Magazine.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.

OH! light is pleasant to the eye,

And health comes rustling on the gale, Clouds are careering through the sky,

Whose shadows mock them down the dale; Nature as fresh and fragrant seems

As I have met her in my dreams.

For I have been a prisoner long,

In gloom and loneliness of mind,
Deaf to the melody of song,

To every form of beauty blind;
Nor morning dew, nor evening balm,
Might cool my cheek, my bosom calm.

But now the blood, the blood returns

With rapturous pulses through my veins ; My heart, new-born within me, burns,

My limbs break loose, they cast their chains, Rekindled at the sun, my sight

Tracks to the point an eagle's flight.

I long to climb those old grey rocks,

Glide with yon river to the deep;

Range the green hills with herds and flocks,
Free as the roe-buck, run and leap;
Then mount the lark's victorious wing,
And from the depth of ether sing.

O earth! in maiden innocence,

Too early fled thy golden time;

O earth! earth! earth! for man's offence,
Doomed to dishonour in thy prime !

Of how much glory then bereft!
Yet, what a world of bliss was left!

The thorn-harsh emblem of the curse-
Puts forth a paradise of flowers;

Labour, man's punishment, is nurse
To halcyon joys at sunset hours:
Plague, famine, earthquake, want, disease,
Give birth to holiest charities.

And death himself, with all the woes
That hasten, yet prolong his stroke,—
Death brings with every pang repose,
With every sigh he solves a yoke;
Yea, his cold sweats and moaning strife
Wring out the bitterness of life!

Life, life! with all its burthens dear!
Friendship is sweet,-love sweeter still!
Who would forego a smile, a tear,

One generous hope, one chastening ill?
Home, kindred, country!—these are ties
Might keep an angel from the skies!

But these have angels never known,
Unvexed felicity their lot;

Their sea of glass before the throne,

Storm, lightning, shipwreck, visit not: Our tides, beneath the changing moon, Are soon appeased,—are troubled soon.

Well, I will bear what all have borne,

Live my few years, and fill my place;
O'er old and young affections mourn,
Rent one by one from my embrace,
Till suffering ends, and I have done
With all delights beneath the sun!

Whence came I?-Memory cannot say;
What am I?-Knowledge will not show;

Bound whither?-Ah! away, away,

Far as eternity can go :

Thy love to win, thy wrath to flee,
O God! Thyself mine helper be!

Prose. By a Poet.

BY MARY HOWITT.

In thought, I saw the palace domes of Tyre;
The gorgeous treasures of her merchandise;
All her proud people in their brave attire,

Thronging her streets for sport or sacrifice.
I saw the precious stones and spiceries;
The singing girl with flower-wreathed instrument;
And slaves whose beauty asked a monarch's price.
Forth from all lands all nations to her went,
And kings to her on embassy were sent.

I saw, with gilded prow and silken sail,
Her ships that of the sea had government:
Oh gallant ships! 'gainst you what might prevail !
She stood upon her rock, and in her pride
Of strength and beauty, waste and woe defied.

I looked again—I saw a lonely shore,

A rock amid the waters, and a waste

Of matchless sand:- I heard the black seas roar,
And winds that rose and fell with gusty haste.
There was one scathed tree, by storm defaced,
Round which the sea-birds wheeled with screaming cry.
Ere long came on a traveller, slowly paced;
Now east, then west, he turned with curious eye,
Like one perplexed with an uncertainty.

Awhile he looked upon the sea, and then

Upon a book, as if it might supply

The things he lacked :-he read, and gazed again;

Yet, as if unbelief so on him wrought,

He might not deem this shore the shore he sought.

-

Again I saw him come :-'t was eventide ;-
The sun shone on the rock amid the sea;
The winds were hushed; the quiet billows sighed
With a low swell; - the birds winged silently
Their evening flight around the scathed tree:
The fisher safely put into the bay,

And pushed his boat ashore;-then gathered he
His nets, and hasting up the rocky way,

Spread them to catch the sun's warm evening ray.
I saw that stranger's eye gaze on the scene;
"And this was Tyre!" said he; "how has decay
Within her palaces a despot been!

Ruin and silence in his courts are met,

And on her city-rock the fisher spreads his net!” Literary Souvenir.

CASABIANCA.

Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of L'Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and the gallant youth perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.

THE boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but him had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud though childlike form!

The flames rolled on-he would not go
Without his father's word;

That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud :

: 66 'say, father! say,

If yet my task is done?"

He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!
And"-but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair!

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