Still my heart remains the same; Chide no more then; for I vow, If my heart adores a new love, "Tis because she gives me now Joys like those I shared with you, love! Loving her, I still love you, Hark! she calls me!— Love, adieu! THE WORSHIPPER. Ir was a shrine, a sunny shrine, Thrice beautiful, as morning's dream Had brought the image from above. There many an hour would Beauty kneel, Adoring at the lovely shrine Haunting the statue with one prayer— "Would thou hadst life! would thou wert mine!" Wearied, at length, all-pitying heaven No more the maiden's prayer denied; Life darkened in the statue's eye, And warmed the veins, life's crimson tide; L. E. L. RETIREMENT. A PICTURE IN THE BRITISH GALLERY, BY E. D. LEAHY. Ir was a stream in Thessaly;-the banks Closed o'er the waters; yet at times the wind And shewed its treasures; for the pebbles shone One only flower grew in that lonely place, With large dark eyes, whose melancholy light Seemed as born of deep thought, which had gone through Had known the anxious misery of love, The sickness of the hope which pines and dies Of feelings in the gay and lighted hall; — L. E. L. GODIVA. A TALE. BY AN ETONIAN. WHOE'ER has been at Coventry, must know (Unless he 's quite devoid of curiosity), That once a year it has a sort of show, Conducted with much splendour and pomposity. I'll just describe it, if I can—1 -but no, It would exhaust the humour of a Fawcett; I Ah! those were pleasant days, when you and I, Oh! sweet is praise to youthful poet's ear, The loud collision of applauding gloves, Oh! stolen joys, far sweeter for the stealing, Of your enchantments holds my heart in thrall. My eyes just now are fixed upon the ceiling- I feel my cheek flush-hear my inkstand fall; My soul is wandering through the distant groves But to my tale-I'm somewhat given to prating, So, without wasting now another line, My poem I'll begin, as poets use, Spirit which art within me, if in truth Each meaner thought to aspirations high, If, when at morn I view the bright blue heaven, Thoughts are around me which not all have felt; If, in the dim and fading light of even, A poet's rapture on my soul hath dwelt; If to my wayward nature hath been given But these are boyish dreams,—Away, away, Ere This is a very pretty invocation, Though scarce adapted to my present style; I wrote it in a fit of inspiration, The finest I've enjoyed a monstrous while ; And 't is but seldom that my muse will smile. It is an ancient and a gallant town, Nor all unknown to loftier lays than mine; Its name it wishes to be handed down, And still in England's annals longs to shine; And Mr. Cobbett wants to represent This self-same Coventry in parliament. But at the period when my tale commences, There were no Cobbetts-'t was a barbarous age; The "Sovereign People" scarce were in their senses, For Radical Reform was not the rage: Though then Sir Francis might have found pretences There was of yore an Earl of Coventry, Famous for wine and war-one Leofric; A genuine Saxon-he'd a light blue eye, His stature tall-his frame well built and thick: His flaxen locks fell down luxuriantly On his fine shoulders—and his glance was quick. But though he really was a handsome earl, He was at times a most uncommon churl. He had fought well and often-miles around, • Wentworth-not Burdett. |