To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board!

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?

Ah, no! They have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above:

Friends, brothers and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow?-The dead cannot grieve;

Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which Compassion itself could relieve.

Ah sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear,
Peace! peace! is the watchword, the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?
Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow!

Beneath the cold head, and around the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise!

The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled;

And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. Carlisle's Grammar Schools.

EPITAPH

ON AN IDEOT GIRL.

Ir the innocent are favourites of Heaven ;-
And God but little asks where little's given,
Thy great Creator hath for thee in store
Eternal joys. What wise man can have more?

THE MOSSY SEAT.

BY J. MOIR, ESQ.

THE landscape hath not lost its look;
Still rushes on the sparkling river;—
Nor, hath the gloominess forsook

These granite crags, that frown for ever;
Still hangs, around, the shadowy wood,-
Whose sounds but murmur solitude;
The raven's plaint, the linnet's song,
The stock-dove's coo, in grief repining,

In mingled echoes steal along;

The setting sun is brightly shining, And clouds above, and hills below, Are burning in his golden glow!

It is not meet-it is not fit

Though fortune all our hopes hath thwarted, Whilst on the very stone I sit,

Where first we met, and last we parted,
That absent from my soul should be
The thought that loves and looks to thee!
Each happy hour that we have proved,

While love's delicious converse blended,
As 'neath the twilight star we roved,
Unconscious where our progress tended,—
Still brings my mind a soft relief;
And bids it love the joys of grief.'

What soothing recollections throng,
Presenting many a mournful token,
That heart's remembrance to prolong,
Which then was blest-but now is broken!

I cannot-Oh! hast thou forgot

Our early loves this hallowed spot?

I almost think I see thee stand!—

I almost dream I hear thee speaking!—

I feel the pressure of thy hand!

Thy living glance in fondness seeking,— Here, all apart-by all unseen—

Thy form upon my arm to lean!

Though beauty bless the landscape still,

Though woods surround, and waters lave it,
My heart feels not the vivid thrill
Which long ago thy presence gave it.
Mirth,music,-friendship, have no tone
Like that which with thy voice hath flown!
And Memory only now remains

To whisper things that once delighted;
Still still I love to tread these plains,-
To seek this sacred haunt benighted-
And feel a something sadly sweet
In resting on this MOSSY SEAT.

Blackwood's Magazine.

SONNET.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ.

Nor love, nor war, nor the tumultuous swell
Of civil conflicts, nor the wrecks of change,
And duty struggling with afflictions strange,
Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell;
But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,
There also is the muse not loth to range
Watching the blue smoke of the elmy grange
Skyward ascending from the twilight dell ;
Meek aspirations please her lone endeavour,
And sage content and placid melancholy,
She loves to gaze upon a crystal river,
Diaphonous, because it travels slowly :
Soft is the music that would please for ever,
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.

A FAREWELL TO ENGLAND.

BY JOSEPH RITCHIE, ESQ.

THY chalky cliffs are fading from my view,
Our bark is dancing gaily on the sea,

I sigh while yet I may, and say adieu,
Albion, thou jewel of the earth, to thee,
Whose fields first fed my childish fantasy,
Whose mountains were my boyhood's wild delight,
Whose rocks, and woods, and torrents were to me
The food of my soul's youthful appetite,-
Were music to my ear, a blessing to my sight.

I never dreamt of beauty, but, behold,
Straightway thy daughters flashed upon my eye;
I never mused on valour, but the old.
Memorials of thy haughty chivalry
Filled my expanding soul with extasy;
And when I thought on wisdom and the crown
The muses give, with exultation high,

I turned to those whom thou hast called thine own, Who fill the spacious earth with their and thy renown.

When my young heart, in life's gay morning hour,
At beauty's summons, beat a wild alarm,

Her voice came to me from an English bower,

And English were the smiles that wrought the charm;
And if, when wrapt asleep on Fancy's arm,
Visions of bliss my riper years have cheered,
Of home, and love's fireside, and greetings warm,
For one by absence and long toil endeared,

The fabric of my hopes on thee hath still been reared.

Peace to thy smiling hearths, when I am gone;
And mayest thou still thy ancient dowry keep,
To be a mark to guide the nations on,

Like a tall watch-tower flashing o'er the deep;—

Still mayest thou bid the sorrowers cease to weep,
And dart the beams of Truth athwart the night

That wraps a slumbering world, till, from their sleep
Starting, remotest nations see the light,

And earth be blest beneath the buckler of thy might.

Strong in thy strength I go, and wheresoe'er My steps may wander, may I ne'er forget All that I owe to thee; and O may ne'er My frailties tempt me to abjure that debt! And what, if far from thee my star must set, Hast thou not hearts that shall with sadness hear The tale, and some fair cheeks that shall be wet, And some bright eyes, in which the swelling tear Shall start for him who sleeps in Afric's desarts drear.

Yet I will not profane a charge like mine,
With melancholy bodings, nor believe,
That a voice, whispering ever in the shrine
Of my own heart, spake only to deceive;

I trust its promise, that I go to weave

A wreath of palms, entwined with many a sweet Perennial flower, which time shall not bereave Of all its fragrance,—that I yet shall greet Once more the ocean queen, and throw it at her feet. London Magazine.

THE EXCHANGE.

BY S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.

WE pledged our hearts, my love and I,-
I in my arms the maiden clasping;

I could not tell the reason why,
But oh! I trembled like an aspen.

Her father's love she bade me gain;
I went and shook like any reed!
I strove to act the man-in vain!
We had exchanged our hearts indeed.