Give back the lost and lovely! Those for whom

The place was kept at board and hearth so long; The prayer went up thro' midnight's breathless gloom,

And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,

-But all is not thine own!

To thee the love of woman hath gone down,

Dark flow the tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown!

-Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead : Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee,

Restore the dead, thou Sea!

STANZAS.

MISS BOWLES.

I NEVER cast a flower away,

The gift of one who cared for me,
A little flower,-a faded flower,--

But it was done reluctantly.

I never look'd a last adieu

To things familiar, but my heart
Shrank with a feeling almost pain,

E'en from their lifelessness to part.

I never spoke the word Farewell!

But with an utterance faint and broken ;
A heart-sick yearning for the time

When it should never more be spoken.

AN EVENING WALK IN BENGAL.

HEBER.

OUR task is done!-on Gunga's breast
The sun is sinking down to rest :
And, moor'd beneath the tamarind bough,
Our bark has found its harbour now.
With furled sail, and painted side,
Behold the tiny frigate ride.
Upon her deck, 'mid charcoal gleams,
The Moslems' savoury supper steams,
While all apart, beneath the wood,
The Hindoo cooks his simpler food.

Come walk with me the jungle through : If yonder hunter told us true, Far off in desert dank and rude, The tiger holds his solitude ; Nor (taught by recent harm to shun The thunders of the English gun) A dreadful guest but rarely seen, Returns to scare the village green. Come boldly on; no venom'd snake Can shelter in so cool a brake ; Child of the sun, he loves to lie 'Mid Nature's embers, parch'd and dry, Where o'er some tower in ruin laid, The peepul spreads its haunted shade,

Or round a tomb his scales to wreathe,
Fit warder in the gate of death!
Come on! yet pause! behold us now
Beneath the bamboo's arched bough,
Where gemming oft that sacred gloom,
Glows the geranium's scarlet bloom,
And winds our path through many a bower
Of fragrant tree and crimson flower ;
The ceiba's crimson pomp display'd
O'er the broad plantain's humbler shade,
And dusk anana's prickly blade ;
While o'er the brake, so wild and fair,
The betel waves his crest in air.
With pendant train and rushing wings,
Aloft the gorgeous peacock springs ;
And he, the bird of hundred dyes,
Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize,
So rich a shade, so green a sod,
Our English fairies never trod.
Yet who in Indian bower has stood,
But thought on England's good green-wood ?
And bless'd, beneath the palmy shade,
Her hazel and her hawthorn glade,
And breathed a prayer (how oft in vain !)
To gaze upon her oaks again.
A truce to thought! The jackal's cry
Resounds like sylvan revelry;
And through the trees yon falling ray
Will scantly serve to guide our way.
Yet mark! as fade the upper skies,
Each thicket opes ten thousand eyes;

Before, beside us, and above, The fire fly lights his lamp of love, Retreating, chasing, sinking, soaring, The darkness of the copse exploring; While to this cooler air confess'd The broad Dhatura bares her breast Of fragrant scent and virgin white, A pearl around the locks of night! Still as we pass, in softened hum, Along the breezy alleys come The village song, the horn, the drum. Still as we pass, from bush and briar The shrill cigala strikes his lyre ; And what is she, whose liquid strain Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane? I know that soul-entrancing swell! It is it must be Philomel.

Enough, enough, the rustling trees
Announce a shower upon the breeze,
The flashes of the summer sky
Assume a deeper, ruddier dye;
Yon lamp that trembles on the stream,
From forth our cabin sheds its beam;
And we must early sleep, to find
Betimes the morning's healthy wind.
But oh! with thankful hearts confess
E'en here there may be happiness;
And He, the bounteous Sire, has given
His peace on earth-his hope of heaven!

CHANGE.

L. E. LANDON.

The wind is sweeping o'er the hill ;

It hath a mournful sound,
As if it felt the difference

Its weary wing hath found.
A little while that wandering wind

Swept over leaf and flower :
For there was green for every tree,

And bloom for every hour.

It wandered through the pleasant wood,

And caught the dove's lone song ;
And by the garden beds, and bore

The rose's breath along.
But hoarse and sullenly it sweeps ;

No rose is opening now-
No music, for the wood-dove's nest

Is vacant on the bough.

Oh, human heart and wandering wind,

Go look upon the past;
The likeness is the same with each,

Their summer did not last.
Each mourns above the things it loved-

One o'er a flower and leaf; The other over hopes and joys,

Whose beauty was as brief.