A form, though not of finest mould, But still her air, her face, each charm, With mind her mantling cheek must glow, Ah! could I such a being find, And were her fate to mine but joined By Hymen's silken tie, To her myself, my all I'd give, For her consent to die. Whene'er by anxious gloom oppressed, On the soft pillow of her breast My aching head I'd lay; At her sweet smile each care should cease, Her kiss infuse a balmy peace, And drive my griefs away. In turn, I'd soften all her care, Each thought, each wish, each feeling share; Should sickness e'er invade, My voice should soothe each rising sigh, Should gathering clouds our sky deform, My bosom to its bolts I'd bare, Together should our prayers ascend, To praise the Almighty name; And when I saw her kindling eye Beam upwards to her native sky, My soul should catch the flame. Thus nothing should our hearts divide, And, when life's little scene was o'er, The Consumptive.-ROCKINGHAM Gazette. No, never more-my setting sun The hard and fast expiring breath; I breathe the chilling airs of death No, never more-it all is vain- And deep the sigh that Memory heaves No, never more-I may not view The glorious heaven, the ocean's blue, The evening's beauty, once so dear, That bears the glowing thoughts above, No, never more-when prisoners wait And see, beyond their dungeon gate, On the fair earth and sun-bright heaven, No, never more-and now, farewell! And soon, above my green-roofed cell My heart hath found its rest above; And, O, it is a voice of love, That whispers-It is time to die! Lines to the Western Mummy.-W. E. GALLAUDET, O STRANGER, whose repose profound And call thee from beneath the ground What wonders of the secret earth Thy lip, too silent, might reveal! Thy race, by savage war o'errun, Sunk down, their very name forgot; By Friendship's hand thine eyelids closed, The stars have run their nightly round, And many a season o'er the ground And wilt thou not one moment raise How like what once enchanted thee? Thy name, thy date, thy life declarePerhaps a queen, whose feathery band A thousand maids have sighed to wear, The brightest in thy beauteous land Perhaps a Helen, from whose eye A faded phantom, and no more? O, not like thee would I remain, The freshness that my childhood knew. But has thy soul, O maid, so long Or has it, in some distant clime, With curious eye, unsated, strayed, And, down the winding stream of time, On every changeful current played? Or, locked in everlasting sleep, Must we thy heart extinct deplore, Thy fancy lost in darkness weep, And sigh for her who feels no more? Or, exiled to some humbler sphere, Whoe'er thou be, thy sad remains Shall from the muse a tear demand, Who, wandering on these distant plains, Looks fondly to a distant land. Song -ANONYMOUS. A PALE weeping-willow stands yonder alone, That tells of the maiden who sleeps there in death. She came to the village,-a stranger unknown,— She told not her story, she spoke not of sorrow, But laid herself down, and, heart-broken, she sighed; And, ere the hills blushed in the dawn of the morrow, Uncomplaining and silent, the sweet stranger died. Apart and alone, the sad villagers made A cold, quiet tomb in the heart of the vale; The Life of the Blessed.-Bryant. FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEON. Alma region luciente, Prado de bien andanza, que ni al hielo, &c. REGION of life and light! Land of the good, whose earthly toils are o'er! Nor frost, nor heat, may blight Thy vernal beauty; fertile shore, Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore ' There, without crook or sling, Walks the good Shepherd; blossoms white and red Round his meek temples cling; And, to sweet pastures led, His own loved flock beneath his eye are fed. He guides, and near him they Follow delighted; for he makes them go |