Fare thee well, land of my birth, LINES, WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS IN AMPTHILL PARK. BY J. H. WIFFEN, ESQ. Out upon time-LORD BYRON. BRIGHTLY the moon-beams slept amid For the alder rankled at the door, And thistles grew on the chill damp floor; And from the night raven's sheltering bough, Is eat by the silent tusk of TIME! O, how unlike their years of prime, Crumbles the robes of the Priest of God; On the palace of kings and the peasant's cot, He turns his visage and they are not! Even lofty song and the magic of rhyme Yield at length to his power!—Out—out upon TIME! Leeds Intelligencer. SPANISH ROMANCE. Los Moros Vienen. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. THERE'S a sound of arrows on the air,- I see through the trees the banners glare,— This eve they shall hang on the christian's wall; And the haughty hands that those banners bore, This eve shall be stiff in their own dark gore. Then leave me, sweet lady! thy starry eyes That form!-for the silk and the gold of a throne.— Before the dawning sky is red, Yon plain shall be heaped with the dying and dead. Hark! Hark !-'Tis the christian's battle horn! Like a fiery gleam in the opening morn! One kiss, sweet love;-go pray for Spain- Whose soul may on that fatal plain, But linger for thy parting hymn !— THE VISION. I CALL upon thee in the night, Thou stand'st before me silently, Calm as the broad and silent deep, When winds are hushed and waves asleep. Thou gazest on me!-But thy look Of angel tenderness, So pierces, that I less can brook, Around thee robes of snowy white, With virgin taste, are thrown; And at thy breast a lily bright, It is a dream and thou art gone, To muse on days when thou to me O lonely is the lot of him Whose path is on the earth, And when his thoughts are dark and dim A swallow left when all his kind Have crossed the seas and winged the wind. The auburn hair is braided soft, Upon thy snowy brow :- I cannot follow now! It would be crime, a double death- But let me press that hand again, When sauntering through the grassy plain, Or pausing as we marked afar Blackwood's Magazine. THE MICHAELMAS DAISY. LAST Smile of the departing year, Thy tender blush, thy simple frame, But now thou com'st, with softer claim, Sweet are the charms in thee we find,- "Tis thine to call past bloom to mind, To promise future spring. Literary Gazette. A L. STANZAS WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. NAY, reproach me not, sweet one! I still am thine own, Yes, I still am thine own,-though I sometimes may mingle- In my heart-my dark heart-dwelling silent and single- If I join the loud throng in its madness of mirth, I but think how much purer our pleasures have been ;— If I gaze on the fair-bosomed daughters of earth, "Tis to turn to thy beauties-of beauty the Queen! And if from man's dwelling to Nature I flee, Glen-mountain-and ocean-seem breathing of thee. When a soft soothing glance from the eye of affection Of the passionate love ever beaming from thine!— "Twill beam on me no more!-Yet though death has bereft me Of a form such as Seraphs from heaven might adore,— In this image thy features of beauty are left me, A. A. W. |