And she, in simple beauty drest,
Whose image lives within my breast,
Who trembling heard my parting sigh,
And long pursued me with her eye;
Does she, with heart unchanged as mine,
Oft in the vocal bowers recline,

Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide,
Muse, while the Evan seeks the Clyde ?

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound,
Ye lavish woods that wave around,
And o'er the stream your shadows throw,
Which sweetly winds so far below;
What secret charm to memory brings
All that on Evan's border springs?

Sweet banks! ye bloom by MARY's side; Blest stream! she views thee haste to Clyde.

Can all the wealth of India's coast
Atone for years in absence lost?
Return, ye moments of delight!
With richer treasures bless my sight;
Swift from this desert let me part,
And fly to meet a kindred heart';'*'
Nor more may aught my steps divide

༄་

Let echoes to each other tell,
Till the mournful accents fly

TO STREPHON'S. ear, and all is well.

But gently breathe the fatal truth,

And soften every harsher sound,
For STREPHON 's such a tender youth,
The softest words too deep will wound,

Now, fountains, echoes, all be dumb;
For, should I cost my swain a tear,
I should repent it in my tomb,

FROM

ROM place to place, forlorn, I go,

With downcast

a silent shade

1 downcast eyes, a

Forbidden to declare my woe;

To speak, till spoken to, afraid. *

This is a very ingenious allusion to the popular notion

that ghosts are not permitted to speak till first addressed by

the beholder.

My

My inward pangs, my secret grief,
My soft consenting looks betray ;
He loves, but gives me no relief;

Why speaks not he who may ? my

STEEL.

I HAVE a silent sorrow here,
A grief I'll ne'er impart;

It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes my heart.

This cherisht woe, this loved despair,

My lot for ever be,

So, my soul's lord! the pangs I bear
Be never known by thee.

And when pale characters of death
Shall mark this alter'd cheek,
When my poor wasted trembling breath
My life's lost hope would speak,-

I shall

I shall not raise my eyes to heaven,

Nor mercy ask for me;

My soul despairs to be forgiven,
Unpardon'd, love! by thee.*

R. B. SHERIDAN.

THERE is one dark and sullen hour

Which fate decrees our lives should know, Else we should slight th' Almighty power, Wrapt in the joys we find below:

'Tis past, dear CYNTHIA, now let frowns begone; A long, long penance I have done For crimes, alas! to me unknown.

In each soft hour of silent night.
Your image in my dream appears;
I grasp the soul of my delight,

Slumber in joys, but wake in tears:

Ah! faithless charming saint, what will you do?
Let me not think I am by you

Loved less for being true.

* From the play of The Stranger, in the character of an unfaithful but penitent wife.

CAN

CAN loving father ever prove

From loving daughter purer love?
For him my duteous prayers ascend;
To him my kindest wishes tend:
If sickness bid his spirits fly,

Or blanch his cheek, or dim his eye,
Till health my anxious care relieve,
How do I, sad one! droop and grieve!
Yet ah! I own with conscious shame,
Tis mine to love a dearer name.

1

Sweet soothing task! I daily trace
Affection in a mother's face;

Its rising flush delighted see,

1

And catch the sigh that breathes for me.
Can I thy long long cares review

And cheat affection of its due?
No, mother, never!-Saints above
Feel not the fervour of my love:
But still, I own with conscious shame,

'Tis mine to love a dearer name.

Oh,