3.

Descend, my love, the hour is come;
Why linger on the hill?

The sun hath left my quiet home,
But thou canst see him still;
Yet, why a lonely wanderer stray?
Alone the joy pursue?

The glories of the closing day,
Can charm thy Mary too.

4.

song,

O Edward, when we stroll'd along,
Beneath the waving corn,
And both confess'd the power of
And bless'd the dewy morn;
To thy fond words my heart replied,
(My presence then could move)
"How sweet with Mary by my side,
"To gaze and talk of love."

5.

Thou art not false ;-that cannot be !

Yet I my rivals deem,

Each woodland charm, the moss, the tree,

The silence, and the stream.

If these, my love, detain thee now,

I'll yet forgive thy stay;

But with to-morrow's dawn, come thou

We'll brush the dews away.

THE EMIGRANT'S GRAVE.

FOUNDED ON A TRUE STORY.

By W. SPENCER, ESQ.

WHY mourn ye, why strew ye those flow'rets around,

To

yon new-sodded grave, as your slow steps advance? In yon new-sodded grave (ever dear be the ground!) Lies the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile from France.

And is the poor exile at rest from his woe, No longer the sport of misfortune and chance!

Mourn on, village mourners, my tears too shall flow For the stranger ye lov'd, the poor exile of France.

Oh! kind was his nature, tho' bitter his fate, And gay was his converse, tho' broken his heart; No comfort, no hope, his own heart could elate, Tho' comfort and hope he to all could impart.

Ever joyless himself, in the joys of the plain Still foremost was he, mirth and pleasure to raise, And sad was his soul, yet how blithe was his strain, When he sung the glad song of more fortunate days!

One pleasure he knew; in his straw-cover'd shed For the snow-beaten beggar his faggot to trim,

One tear of delight he could drop on the bread Which he shar'd with the poor, tho' still poorer than

And when round his death-bed profusely we cast Ev'ry gift, ev'ry solace our hamlet could bring,

He blest us with sighs, which we thought were his last;

But he still had a pray'r for his Country and King.

Poor exile, adieu! undisturb'd be thy sleep! From the feast, from the wake, from the village green

dance,

How oft shall we wander, by moonlight to weep O'er the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France.

To the church going bride shall thy mem'ry impart One pang as her eyes on thy cold relics glance,

One flow'r from her garland, one tear from her heart, Shall drop on the grave of the exile of France.

VERSES SENT TO MISS

WITH THE EMIGRANT'S GRAVE.

Soon the tear shall be dry, soon the flow'r shall be sere, Which mourners on earth to these ashes have giv'n, But heav'n from thy lips the sad story will hear, For music like thine is the language of heav'n.

Oh! then shall this turf bed with flow'rs ever crown'd, And with tears ever dew'd, time's inclemency brave, For hands more than mortal shall garden the ground, And Angels shall weep o'er the Emigrant's Grave!

TO JULIA

Aн me! with what ardour I lov'd the delusion
Where Fancy mid scenes of futurity rov'd;
And the falter of language and blush of confusion
Betray'd the kind wishes of her whom I lov'd.

At length I possess'd the vain fugitive hour,
So wish'd for to close my pursuit and my care;
Smiles of favour secede to the stern frown of power,
She listen'd, disdain'd, and condemn'd to despair.

Farewell the sweet hope that still whisper'd to-morrow, To-morrow shall silence those doubtings and fears; With the winds thou shalt mingle the breath of thy

sorrow,

And lose in the stream of oblivion thy tears.

Farewell the sweet interest, enhancing our pleasure, And softening the cares we are destin'd to know! Farewell ye gay revels-ah! dear beyond measure, Though nought ye have left but remembrance and woe!

Unheeded the seasons distribute their power,

A stranger to life I exist but to mourn;
I feel not the biting of Winter's sharp hour,
And vainly the beauties of Nature return!

S.

SONG,

BY GEORGE CANNING, ESQ.

Ir hush'd the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep, The sky if no longer dark tempests deform; When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep? No-here's to the Pilot that weather'd the storm.

At the footstool of Power let Flattery fawn;
Let Faction her idols extol to the skies;
To Virtue, in humble retirement withdrawn,
Unblam'd may the accents of gratitude rise.

And shall not HIS memory to Britain be dear,
Whose example with envy all nations behold,
A statesman, unbiass'd by interest or fear,

By power uncorrupted, untainted by gold?

Who, when Terror and Doubt through the universe reign'd,

While Rapine and Treason their standards unfurl'd, The heart and the hopes of his Country maintain'd, And one kingdom preserv'd midst the wreck of the world.

Unheeding, unthankful, we bask in the blaze,

While the beams of the Sun in full majesty shine: When he sinks into twilight, with fondness we gaze, And mark the mild lustre that gilds his decline.